Where the Flowers Bloom in Winter
by one.long.melody
Summary: What if the four Dollanganger children were never hidden away inside an attic? What if Alicia Foxworth had won her battle over breast cancer? How would their lives differ from the events in FitA and GoS, and what would stay the same? Work in progress.
1. Prologue

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

**A/N: **In addition to the Prologue, I have also posted the first two chapters. Three and four are already complete, though I need to go back and proof read them. If people's responses to this fic are positive, then I'll continue posting chapters.

* * *

Not all fairytales begin happily. The ones that do are rarely without their share of grief and gloom in between. Otherwise, who would dare call these stories fairytales? Certainly not me, the one Grandmother Alicia always calls her 'little pragmatist'. No one knows how cruel the world can be better than she, but no one learned this quicker than my three siblings and I did.

It is one thing to be abandoned when the one who is supposed to care for you is simply incapable of doing it. But when greed becomes an asset and the one you love and depend on is blinded by that greed, you can't help but feel betrayed. It was Grandmother Alicia who once told me that cruelty and betrayal often cross paths. Being little more than a child at the time, I hadn't fully understood what she'd meant. Now that I am older, I have every intention of using this understanding to my full advantage—regardless of who I hurt along the way.

It is by the recommendation of both my brother Chris and our grandmother Alicia that I have chosen to record the events spanning more than a decade of our lives. I shall now raise my pen to them as one does a glass of champagne to guests at a party, and begin to document what is not just my story, but _our story. _

The story of our family.


	2. Ch 1: The Journey Begins

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

We were known as the Dresden Dolls.

Daddy, Momma, Chris, Carrie, Cory, and me. In our hometown of Gladstone, Pennsylvania, all six of us had been something of celebrities. With our identical flaxen blond hair and cerulean blue eyes, it wasn't unusual to become the object of interest everywhere we went. Never was there a time in which I can recall being frightened or confused by it. Always did I respond well to the attention lavished upon me and members of my family; both by those we knew, and those we did not. My parents had accepted my enthusiasm as evidence that I would grow up to be the prima ballerina I so longed to be.

It was June of 1957, and two long, arduous months had passed since my father's death. A death that was the result of a terrible traffic accident on his thirty-sixth birthday. I wasn't sure how, but somehow my family and I had managed to pull through. Especially my mother, who, until recently, had resembled no more than a shadow of her former self. Momma, who claimed to have no skills that an employer looking to hire would deem favorable, had no way of supporting us. By June, the money we'd made selling off nearly all of our possessions had dwindled down to almost nothing.

As a result, Momma arranged for my two brothers, sister and me to stay with Alicia, our father's mother who resided in Richmond, Virginia. In the meantime, Momma planned to travel on to the Blue Ridge Mountains where her parents lived. She and Daddy were connected to one another even before they were born, through the acquaintance of their fathers—a pair of business associates. Daddy often boasted that his father, Garland, had taught Malcolm Patterson, Momma's father, all there was to know about the business world. Tragically, Grandfather Garland had died of heart failure, just six years after he'd married Grandmother Alicia. Daddy was just three years old at the time, but from what his mother had told him, he was everything his late father had been. Both had been strikingly handsome, exceptionally kind, and forever cheerful. Whenever my grandmother gazed upon my father, it was easy to tell she looked at him the same way she had Grandfather Garland.

A few years following her husband's death, she decided the best thing to do would be to sell the estate to Malcolm and his wife. Grandmother Alicia then took Daddy and moved back to Richmond. It was where her family resided, and where she'd lived before marrying Grandfather Garland. It was there she reestablished her romance with Alistair Aldridge, whom she'd dated briefly in high school. Since then he had gone on to study medicine, before setting up his own practice in their small town. They soon married, and spent twelve happy, memorable years together, before Grandfather Alistair died after a long, incapacitating battle with tuberculosis.

Grandmother Alicia quickly realized that the meager wages she earned teaching the neighborhood children piano were not going to be enough to send her son on to college. Grandfather Garland had left behind a significance inheritance, but it had been lost in the great Stock Market Crash of 1929. And Grandfather Alistair, who was as kind and loving as Grandfather Garland, had been a man of simple needs. Daddy believed it was the mentorship Grandfather Garland had bestowed upon Momma's own father all those years ago, that resulted in the generosity of her parents. Their finances had been more than enough to send Daddy on to Yale—the college of his dreams—from which he'd graduated with top honors.

Naturally, the first question my elder brother, Christopher, and I asked our mother was why we couldn't accompany her to the home of her parents. That was when we first learned that, at the age of eighteen, she had done something for which her father had never forgiven her. This 'thing' was so terrible that he had disinherited her, and neither he nor his wife had ever spoken to Momma again. When Christopher and I inquired about the details, Momma had simply stated that she had 'fallen from grace'. Of course, her description was so vague that I'd no idea what she could mean, and Christopher—as smart as he was—understood as little as I did. She had gone on to clarify that her father was dying, and that it wouldn't be long before death swallowed him up like a drowning swimmer. If she could get him to forgive her before then, she believed he would write her back into his will. After that, we would use her inheritance to begin our lives anew, and everything would be as it should—given the grim circumstances.

"But I don't understand, Momma," I argued. "Why must we stay behind? Can't we go with you?"

To my dismay—as well as to that of my brothers and sister—Momma had shaken her head. "No, Cathy. There's sure to be a lot of tension, and you children have been exposed to more of that in a few months than anyone should in a lifetime. You'll be much happier with your Grandmother Alicia, who's sure to have all sorts of fun things planned for you. I'll come for you when the time is right, and I'll visit every weekend. I promise to call the moment I arrive in Charlottesville. For now, I want you all to concentrate on having a wonderful summer in Richmond with your grandmother. And, if you really like it there, perhaps we'll even make it our permanent home."

The train ride to Virginia had taken God-knew-how-long, and Christopher and I had spent most of it discussing what we would do with our grandfather's money. Although we had never met either of our grandparents on our mother's side, we were well acquainted with Daddy's mother. Grandmother Alicia was a kind, gentle, soft-spoken woman who loved children and always had a kind word for everyone. She always remembered our birthdays—even Momma's—except for this year, what with Daddy's sudden death. I hadn't voiced a single word of complaint at not receiving a birthday card with its customary five-dollar bill inside. The only thing that disappointed me was in not being able to speak to my grandmother at the funeral. When I'd asked Momma why not, she said it was because Grandmother Alicia was 'heavily sedated'. Later on, when I asked Christopher what that meant, he explained how Grandmother Alicia was on medication to help her deal with her loss.

"She's more upset than most people are over Daddy's death," Christopher told me. "Every bit as much as Momma, I don't doubt, but it's harder for Grandmother Alicia."

"How so?" I asked.

"It just is, Cathy. Listen, I heard Momma and Daddy talking once, and he said his mother had to be heavily sedated like this after her husband died."

Not sure which one of our grandfathers Christopher could mean, I said the name of Daddy's stepfather. "You mean Grandfather Alistair?"

Christopher looked at me seriously for a moment before answering. "I mean him _and _Grandfather Garland."

From the way Momma had described it, it would be a long time before Grandmother Alicia managed to work through her grief over the death of her only child. "One of the biggest tragedies in this world is when a parent loses their child. Your Grandmother Alicia has buried two husbands, and now her son. It can't be good for her, living all alone in that empty house of hers." Momma smiled then and added, "Which is why she is so eager to have _you_ four children come and stay with her a while."

I couldn't help but be excited about getting to spend some time with Grandmother Alicia. As a child, I had met her less than ten times, considering the distance between Pennsylvania and Virginia. Although Grandfathers Garland and Alistair were long gone, the way my grandmother talked of them you'd swear they were only away on business. And how she could tell a story! Momma and Daddy had both agreed that out of everyone in the family, I resembled my Grandmother Alicia strongest of all. True, in her youth she had been a brunette with hair of chestnut, but we had the same inquisitive eyes (albeit they were of a different shade), and peaches-and-cream complexions. But it was not only physical appearance that we shared. It was our imaginations, and the way we viewed the world and those around us. My parents always said that I lived in a world of fantasy and fairytales. And from what I'd learned in my brief twelve years, my grandmother had been no different at my age.

"Never let anyone tell you that a strong imagination is a sign of childishness," Grandmother Alicia had told me. "It is only because those people lack that which comes so easily to us that makes them say such foolish things."

At fourteen, Christopher was the exact opposite of me. For example, if something couldn't be scientifically proven, then not even pulling off his arms and legs would force him to change his mind. He was constantly correcting me on things like grammar and vocabulary, until I became so flustered that I'd storm off to another area of the house just to avoid hearing any more. Between Daddy's funeral and preparing for our journey to Virginia, I hadn't much time to consider what I'd do in Grandmother Alicia's small house if my brother got under my skin. True, we hadn't been to Virginia since I was seven, shortly before Cory and Carrie, our darling little five-year-old twins, were born. Even so, I remembered the house being smaller than ours—'a four-bedroom cottage,' Daddy had described it as—and so it would be difficult to elude anyone.

None of us were entirely happy with the arrangement, but Christopher's and my unhappiness was nothing compared to that of what Cory's and Carrie's would eventually be. For this would be the first time our younger brother and sister would be separated from our mother. Even as the train pulled into the depot in Charlottesville, I was already dreading the twins' reactions when the time came for us to bid farewell to Momma. Carrie could scream and scream like a banshee whenever provoked or frightened. And although Cory was the opposite in every way, he never failed to fly to her side like a knight ready to rescue his princess every time he sensed his twin was in danger. Good golly, but I wondered what Grandmother Alicia would say to that!

"Your grandmother promised she'd send a cab for us," Momma explained as we all piled off the train.

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and the enthusiasm we had expressed back on the train quickly evaporated. Carrie walked closely beside me, her head slumped against my hip, while Cory sat, half asleep, in Christopher's arms. The four of us followed Momma past a tarnished, tin roof maintained by four wooden pillars, and over to a green bench. The bench looked as though it had the potential of collapsing if all four of us piled onto it at once. As a result, Christopher and I simply chose to seat the twins. I was drawing nearer to the decision that I would sit with them and take whatever consequences followed. But before I could follow through, I looked up to see a bright, yellow light appear in the distance.

"There's our cab," Momma confirmed, as she gathered up two of our four suitcases. "Wake the twins, will you?"

Christopher and I did as we were told. By the time we'd managed to hoist Carrie and Cory onto their feet, the cab had pulled to a halt before us. The driver was a short man who appeared to be in his mid forties, with a black moustache. His moustache looked as though it had been dyed several times over, for it didn't match the much lighter tint of his graying hair. He tipped his hat to Momma and to us, before taking our bags and piling them into the trunk of the cab.

While Momma sat up front with the driver, Christopher and I occupied the back with the twins seated between us. I would have liked to spend the ride to Grandmother Alicia's cottage gazing out the window at the large, sloping green hills of the Virginian countryside. But my body just wouldn't allow me to indulge in such pleasures. It was very, very early in the morning, and none of us had had a restful night's sleep. Every time I shook myself awake, it was only a matter of seconds before my eyelids slid closed once more. And so, it was only inevitable that I surrendered and let sleep close over me like a dark blanket.


	3. Ch 2: A Light at the End of the Tunnel

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

It seemed as though I'd been asleep for no more than a few minutes before I felt someone shaking me. My eyelids fluttered and I saw Momma, smiling down at me. In her arms dozed Carrie, whose angelic face looked all the sweeter from the illumination of the bright blue moon. To my right stood Christopher, who was busy ushering Cory out of his seat. Cory murmured something inaudible, just as Christopher scooped his small body into his arms.

Peering over Momma's shoulder I could see Grandmother Alicia's pale blue cottage, with its white shutters and flowerboxes overflowing with blossoms of pink and purple. The porch light was on and lit the entire front of the house. The light created a yellow pool which flooded all the way to the edge of the driveway. I climbed out of the cab and followed my mother and siblings up the driveway. When we arrived at the porch, my attention immediately flew to the swing in the corner. So many warm, sunny days had I spent swinging back and forth on that swing! A melancholy feeling of déjà vu washed over me suddenly. For the last time I'd sat in that swing was when Daddy was still alive. But I hadn't time to dwell on such sadness. Before I could, the cab driver came up behind us and set the last of our two suitcases neatly down on the right of the porch. (The other two had been carried up at some point while I'd been asleep.) I assumed Momma had already paid him, since all he did was smile and tip his hat to us the way he had back at the depot. We watched him trip down the stairs and back to his vehicle, then turned our attention back to the house.

Momma rang the doorbell. We all stood back a moment later, when we heard the sound of the door unlocking from the inside. It opened to reveal Grandmother Alicia who, at fifty-five, didn't look a day over forty. She was the same age now as Grandfather Garland (who had also appeared younger than his years) was when the two had first married. If it wasn't for Daddy's death, then my grandmother could probably pass for even younger. At the funeral, I'd overheard Momma telling one of her friends that Daddy's death had 'aged' Grandmother Alicia. Anyone who looked at her now could tell, for the light that had once danced in her large blue eyes had gone out. Perhaps it was my tired eyes playing tricks on me, but I thought I sensed a placidness in her complexion. Her soft hair—which barely graced her chest—still obtained the same chestnut color it had during her youth. She was a small woman, standing just five-foot-one-inch tall, and her face was soft and very pretty. For reasons neither I nor Christopher had ever been able to explain, our grandmother resembled Momma more than she did Daddy. Though Grandmother Alicia greeted us with a warm smile, I could tell by the way the corners of her small mouth twitched that she was in great pain.

From what I understood, Grandmother Alicia had lost her father shortly before marrying Grandfather Garland. My grandfather had been just one year older than my grandmother was now, and back then nearly forty years her senior. But the age difference had made no difference to either of them. For they had loved each other with the same fiery passion as Momma and Daddy had loved each other.

As a child, the story of my grandparents' romance had amused me. Now, as I drew closer to the day in which I would blossom into a teenager, the story more than just amused me—it _fascinated _me. Oh, how I _longed_ to find a love that was as great and as strong as that of my parents and grandparents had been! The only difference I would prefer was that mine didn't end so prematurely.

Not long after Grandfather Garland had died, Grandmother Alicia's mother had followed. It was a lot to endure in so brief a time, and it was for this reason that I admired both my mother and grandmother. Both had found ways to survive following the deaths of their husbands, whom they'd loved like the desert loves the rain.

One of the reasons why I admired my grandmother so much was because she'd dealt with and beaten breast cancer. A battle which had cost her not one but _both _of her breasts. Being only twelve and not having yet begun to develop, I wasn't quite sure how I'd feel in her situation. I supposed that a part of me would be sad, perhaps even angry. But if it was a choice between death and survival, then I'd certainly take the latter. Grandmother Alicia wasn't ashamed of what she'd been forced to give up, and wore her scars like one would medals of honor. When I was very young and asked to see what a woman without breasts looked like, she'd willingly shown me. To me, the sight was no different than a man's chest—except, of course, for the scars.

Still, I couldn't help but be awestruck. It was only after I had asked Grandmother Alicia to reveal her 'medals' in front of my parents that I'd ceased my constant questions. Momma's jaw had fallen to the floor, before she accused me of being inappropriate. Grandmother Alicia had intervened, explaining that I was merely distributing a natural curiosity.

And poor Daddy, whose expression had betrayed his uncertainty as to whom to side with! Later on, he'd taken me aside and explained the significance of the situation to me.

"Although your grandmother and I don't see anything wrong with it, your mother doesn't feel it's an appropriate question to ask. I can't stop you from being curious, Cathy, and I wouldn't want to either. It's very important to ask questions, for that's how we learn. It's how _I _learned. If I never asked questions, I would have never have gotten through medical school and become a doctor."

I swore I would never inquire about or say anything inappropriate in my mother's presence again. And, from that day forward, stayed true to my promise.

"Corrine? Oh, Corrine, can it possibly be—is that really you?" Grandmother Alicia exclaimed then. She blinked her eyes, as if to reassure herself we weren't some cruel illusion brought on by her grief.

"Hello, Alicia," smiled Momma. She readjusted her hold on Carrie, who had begun to slip from our mother's arms. "I hope you weren't waiting up too long."

"Not at all, not at all." Grandmother Alicia stepped to the side and made a motion with her hand for us to enter the cottage. "Come in, come in."

Momma stepped with Carrie through the doorway. Christopher was forced to set Cory on his feet in order to retrieve a pair of suitcases, while I took the remaining two. Cory, annoyed from having to stand, mumbled sleepily as our elder brother ushered him into the house ahead of us. I followed everyone inside, setting one suitcase temporarily down onto the polished linoleum floor to shut the door.

The four of us followed Grandmother Alicia down a modestly yet attractively furnished hallway. Decorating the white walls hung paintings of things such as flowers and animals. She led us past the long, wooden staircase that, as children, Christopher and I had pretended was a hill. Laying flat on our stomachs, we would slide down the stairs on our elbows and knees until they were scraped and bruised.

We strode by the kitchen and continued on until we reached the parlor, which I recalled like one does a vivid dream. It was exactly the way I remembered it, from its inviting fireplace—which obviously wasn't lit—and mantle whose photographs depicted everyone from Grandmother Alicia's parents, Grandfathers Garland and Alistair, to everyone in my immediate family. There was a loveseat that was very nearly the same color as the curtains, its back covered by a white afghan made by Momma. When not covered by pale pink curtains, the windows on either side of the mantle revealed a view of the backyard. It was small, but had combination swing-set and slide. Grandmother Alicia had bought it for Christopher and me when we were younger, as something to do whenever we came to visit. And how we had loved that swing-set and slide! When he was six, Christopher had even carved his initials and the date into one of the wooden shafts. Our home in Gladstone had had a sandbox, but never a swing-set or a slide. The twins were going to squeal with delight when they saw that swing-set, I thought.

Furnishing the rest of the room was a white cushioned rocking chair, a pasticcio settee, and an end table on which sat a small lamp. The lamp was evidently new, and looked as though it was used more for decoration than for lighting the room. But that didn't stop Grandmother Alicia from switching it on in addition to the wall light upon our entry.

Set against the wall beneath a larger pair of windows was a small, child-sized piano with a matching bench placed before it. During our childhoods, whenever Christopher and I had come for visits, our would sit for up to an hour at a time teaching us piano. She had done the same for our uncles, Mal and Joel. It was for this reason, I supposed, that a part of Grandmother Alicia had wanted to relive the memories. Ever since Grandfather Alistair's death, she had supported herself and (until he went away to college) Daddy, by giving piano lessons to the neighborhood children. Both Christopher and I had gotten very good at piano, but neither of us quite liked it well enough to pursue it any further. While my brother was more interested in pursuing his future career as a doctor, I had my heart set on becoming a prima ballerina. I imagined Grandmother Alicia could sit and play the scores to all of the famous ballets on the piano while I danced. When I'd told her of my brilliant idea, she'd responded with such zest that I'd thrown my arms around her. At that moment I'd been so eager to grow up, fervently anticipating the eminent partnership of my grandmother and myself.

Momma and Grandmother Alicia made themselves comfortable on the loveseat. In the meantime, Christopher and I seated ourselves on the settee with the twins between us.

"How was the train ride up from Gladstone?" Grandmother Alicia asked Momma.

"It was fine. The twins slept most of the way, while Christopher and Cathy managed to keep themselves occupied in conversation."

Grandmother Alicia smiled at my older brother and me, before pivoting her attention to the twins. Both had nodded off, their foreheads pressed together in a comical fashion. "Your little ones are _adorable, _Corrine. How old did you say they were again?"

"They turned five this past month."

"How wonderful!" Grandmother Alicia clapped her hands together delightedly and then turned, her eyes scanning over Christopher and me. "And you two—it seems as though it's been _ages_ since I last saw you. My goodness, just look at how you've grown! Christopher, you're the spitting image of your father at his age. And Cathy looks just as I did at twelve—albeit a bit taller, of course. Oh, but you should have seen me! I was so small that my mother had to set a pair of pillows in my chair at the dining table, just so I could see to eat. You can imagine my relief when I finally hit my growth spurt. I won't deny my wish to have been able to grow as tall as you, Cathy; but we all must learn to accept that which cannot be changed."

I nodded politely at my grandmother, and then looked down at my little brother and sister. Many people commented on how much smaller Cory and Carrie were than most five-year-olds. When Momma had consulted their pediatrician, he had assured her that their growth progress was normal. He explained that some children just develop more slowly than others, and that it was nothing to worry about. Carrie was actually a half inch taller than Cory, if only because she was born ten minutes before.

The only concern we had for either of the twins was for Cory and his relentless hay fever. Momma believed he had inherited this from our Uncle Joel. Uncle Joel and Uncle Mal were Momma's two elder brothers, who had both died tragically many years ago. While Uncle Mal had perished after crashing his motorcycle, Uncle Joel had been killed in a skiing accident and never been found. Grandmother Alicia had known both men in their childhoods, and had only wonderful things to say about them. Like her stories of Grandfathers Garland and Alistair, I enjoyed her memorable and often funny accounts about the uncles I knew I would have liked.

"Well, now," said Grandmother Alicia, setting her hands palms down in her lap. "It's very late, and I'm sure you're all exhausted."

Indeed we were. Christopher and I had followed Cory's and Carrie's suggestion and begun to doze. With our elbows resting on the arms of the settee, the sides of our heads had succumbed to our softly clenched fists.

"Will you be staying the night, Corrine?" inquired our grandmother.

As quickly as Christopher's and my bodies had begun to wind down, then did they leap right back into action. Our heads snapped up and we jerked forward on the couch, anticipating Momma's response. Oh, it would be the _grandest thing of all_ if she stayed the night with us! She'd mentioned on the train that she'd be heading back to Charlottesville after dropping us off at Grandmother Alicia's. Of course, there would be hell to pay the next morning when Carrie and Cory woke to find our mother gone. And yet, just as Grandmother Alicia had said, we must all learn to accept the things we cannot change. But just try telling that to two five-year-olds, who have never been separated from their mother for more than a few hours. Our grandmother may have been the most patient person in existence, yet I would pity her having to contend with two screaming children.

"Please, Momma?" I begged. "We can all have breakfast together, and then you can take the afternoon train into Charlottesville."

Momma smiled and then turned her eyes to Christopher, as if she felt her decision required his confirmation.

"It really isn't such a bad idea," he said. "After all, here we are, still awake at nearly four o'clock in the morning. You don't want to spend the next several hours rumbling back and forth on a train, when you've had no sleep all night. Cathy is right, Momma—it'll be best if you stayed the night with us. That way, we can all have a nice breakfast together and afterward exchange proper good-byes."

That was him, my brilliant optimist Christopher. He always knew the right things to say and the best words to choose in order to convince anyone of something. And Momma—she all but melted like butter in his hands! It had been the same way with her and Daddy, except _he _was the one who always gave in ever so quickly. At that moment, I was thankful to have my older, exceptional brother at my side. For I could never have talked our mother into such a decision on my own. As if she could read my thoughts, Grandmother Alicia smiled at me. Having her was sometimes like having a second shadow, for we were alike in so many ways. Whenever she told stories about Grandfathers Garland and Alistair, I even saw Carrie, who would chatter on and on if you let her.

"I thought the boys could stay in their father's old bedroom," Grandmother Alicia told Momma, "and the girls can have the sewing room. I haven't done much to redecorate my son's room since he left for college. I did, however, have his old queen-sized bed put in storage, and in its place are two twin beds. The room also contains a desk, which Chris can use to do his homework. I added a pair of twin beds to the sewing room as well. There's even a sewing table that doubles as a desk, so Cathy will have a place to do _her _homework."

Grandmother Alicia smiled pleasantly, but I couldn't help feeling just a little bit uneasy about the last few things she'd said. Momma hadn't said exactly how long she'd be away for, and I hardly minded spending the remainder of the summer with my grandmother. Nevertheless, the thought of being without my mother for God-knew-how-long was more than I wanted to ponder.

If only I had known what the impending future held for us. Only then would I have followed Carrie's example and screamed and screamed for Momma not to leave us.


	4. Ch 3: Accommodations and Separations

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

The upstairs bedrooms of Grandmother Alicia's cottage were little more than miniature compared to those at our house in Gladstone. While the walls were cream colored, those of Daddy's old bedroom were a powdery blue. There was a small oak dresser placed beside and which matched a large desk that took up nearly the entire area of one wall. Above the desk and nailed to the wall was a wooden shelf lined entirely with Grandfather Alistair's old medical encyclopedias.

A pair of twin beds was pressed to opposing walls: One whose bedspread was cherry red, and the other's forest green. In the middle of the beds and set beneath a full-scale window was a nightstand on which stood a small lamp. Beside it was a picture of Momma and Daddy, taken shortly after he had gone to live with her and her family. Each displayed a dazzling, cheerful smile, proof that they were meant to be even then. She had both arms wrapped tightly around his torso, while his right arm pulled her close against him. In the background was evidence of the most beautiful garden I had ever seen! I longed to inhale the sweet perfumes of those roses, and to lie on my back in that soft grass. How _lucky _Momma was to be returning to the place she'd spent her childhood! It was difficult not to resent her, I decided. But then I thought of Grandmother Alicia, of her everlasting warmth and how sad she'd been since Daddy had died. I doubted very much there had ever a time where she'd needed me more. Where she'd needed _us, _my siblings and I. That was when I snapped myself away from my state of self pity. Instead, I poured all of my focus into what I needed to do in order to bring the smile back to my grandmother's face.

"I thought you might find those interesting, Chris," said Grandmother Alicia, when she caught my brother gazing fixatedly at the shelf of encyclopedias. "Your parents told me how much you want to be a doctor."

Besides our father, Grandmother Alicia was the only other person we knew who called my brother 'Chris'. Not even his teachers or friends at school addressed him by that nickname. Whether it was because he didn't allow them to or because they merely preferred the elegance of 'Christopher', I had no idea. I just knew that whenever Daddy referred to him as 'Chris', my brother's face would brighten like the sun on the first perfect day of spring.

Christopher distributed his gratitude to our grandmother in the form of one of those sunny smiles. "It's all I've ever wanted to be."

"Your Grandfather Alistair was the same way. From the time he was just three years old, he knew he wanted to dedicate his life to helping people. As a child, whenever he came across an injured animal, he would take it home, convinced he could nurse it back to health." Grandmother Alicia let out an amused chuckle—her first happy sound following the tragic events that had so profoundly affected all our lives. "I can't tell you how many domesticated raccoons, birds and rabbits the Aldridges ended up with."

"Grandmother Alicia," asked Christopher, "why didn't my father choose to become a doctor like Grandfather Alistair? Knowing how much Daddy admired him, I would just as well assume that…"

It was the first time anyone had asked this question. As exhausted and strained as my eyes were, I still caught the look of vexation thrown by our grandmother to Momma. I glanced fleetingly back at Christopher, whose answer was a bemused shrug. When my eyes met with Momma's, she merely smiled her radiant smile.

"Christopher," she said, from her place in the open doorway where she stood holding Cory's hand. Even on his feet Cory had begun to doze, his small body swaying awkwardly in unison with his curly blond head. "While I go with your grandmother and sisters to the sewing room, do you think you could get Cory ready for bed? I'll be back to say good-night once I've seen to it that Cathy and Carrie have gotten settled."

Leaving Christopher to tend to Cory, Carrie and I followed our mother and grandmother out the door. Like she did when we had first arrived on the second landing of the house, Grandmother Alicia led us past the balustrade and down the foyer. The foyer was dimly lit by a column of tiny shaded lamps, which lined either side of the cream-colored walls. We walked on until we came to the opposite side of the hallway, where there stood a second pair of doors. It was there, as I stood only a few feet from them, that I stared straight down the hallway and saw it. Suspended on the wall below a bright light that lit up the darkness like a Christmas star was an enormous painting in a gold frame. The painting was of a man I knew well, though only from the photographs I'd seen and the stories I'd heard. His resemblance to Daddy would have been uncanny if I hadn't recognized it; for the man in the painting had the same flaxen blond hair and kind blue eyes. He was dressed stylishly in a navy blue suit with a red rose in his lapel, and his warm smile was enough to melt even the coldest of hearts. For a moment I felt like Dorothy in _The Wizard of Oz, _when she sang of the faraway land over the rainbow—for to gaze upon such a serene painting was to gaze upon heaven itself. The gentleness of those eyes and the tenderness of that smile surged simultaneously through me, making me feel safe and loved.

"Your Grandfather Garland when he was a young man," Grandmother Alicia announced, and I spun my head to look at her. "As a matter of fact, he was just around your father's age when this portrait was painted."

"I never realized just how strongly he resembled Christopher," Momma gasped. Her hands were pressed to her chest as she gazed in awe up at the painting. "If my husband were here, he'd—" She broke off, realizing that she was grasping at straws. "Oh! Oh, my. Alicia, I…"

I stepped away from the painting and over to Momma's side. We huddled closely together, clutching each other's hands. Our hearts seemed ready to pound out of our chests as we anticipated Grandmother Alicia's reaction.

To our great relief she smiled, shrugging off whatever urges she'd had to cry or sink into a depression. Although I hadn't seen her cry at Daddy's funeral (the effects of the tranquilizers had seen to that, Christopher had told me), I was still careful to tread lightly when it came to her 'condition'. Poor Momma had forgotten this, for seeing Grandfather Garland's portrait had been like seeing Daddy again. I could feel her starting to tremble in my clutch. When I looked into her eyes, I saw that they shimmered with tears of guilt.

That was when Grandmother Alicia came forward. Although she appeared on the verge of tears herself, I had to commend her for restraining them. She didn't want to worry Momma, which was just further proof of how compassionate my grandmother was.

"Really, Corrine," Grandmother Alicia said, the areas of her mouth twitching as they had when she'd greeted us at the door, "I'm all right. You needn't overly concern yourself with my feelings."

Unlike Daddy had been, Momma wasn't one to grovel at someone else's feet. "That was the only shortcoming to being married to a man like Garland Foxworth," Grandmother Alicia had once said. "He was the sort who'd apologize for the slightest of transgressions, often until he was blue in the face. But he was such a good, caring man, and I'd much prefer your father to have taken after him." Here she had paused, before adding mysteriously, "Rather than other members of the Foxworth clan."

When I asked her which member of my grandfather's family she'd meant, she had become very nervous. Her hands fluttered about wildly, like the wings of a caged bird. Then they stilled, and she smiled before saying I didn't need to know. Instead, she had gone on to tell me a tale of some other members of the Foxworth family. "Christopher Foxworth," Grandmother Alicia explained, "was a veteran of the Civil War. He served less than three years, before succumbing to an injury on the battlefield that forced him to return home. The doctors told him he would never fully recover the use of his right leg, and that it was likely he'd always require the assistance of a cane. He became very depressed after that, and felt that having another child might help take his mind off his current distress. He already had one child, a son named Jonathan, then eleven years old. He was an intelligent boy, but unfortunately a victim of polio that left him confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Nine months after her husband came home, Gloria Foxworth gave birth to a second son—a sweet little boy with curls of flaxen gold and eyes of cerulean blue. Christopher and Gloria had first met at a Christmas party many years earlier, and so decided that 'Garland' was the name best suited for the newest member of their family.

"Garland was happy and seemed healthy, until one night when Gloria went to the nursery to check on him. She noticed that Garland's breathing was labored, and immediately notified the doctor. Your grandfather was then diagnosed with having acute asthma. As a result, his parents did all they could to prevent any future attacks. Including the assembly of an attic schoolroom with the proper ventilation to keep him healthy. The closest school was more than an hour away, and so they didn't trust in the idea that nothing serious would befall their youngest child.

"It wasn't long before Garland caught on to the fact that he was different from other children. He was always grateful for the support of his older brother, for their conditions left them both paralyzed. Never did Jonathan let his condition get the best of him, and instead made an effort to enjoy each day. He was always so cheerful, and did his best to be not only a proper big brother, but a mentor to Garland. While Jonathan couldn't run around, Garland wasn't _permitted_ to run around because of the potential it would aggravate his asthma. If he did succumb to an attack—he had at least six by the time he was five years old—then he spent the entire day in bed, hooked up to a special machine to help him breathe. Every room in Foxworth Hall had to be properly cleansed of dust and other hazards before he could enter. The Foxworths hired at least two dozen maids, along with a personal nurse, to oversee this. Garland's linens required a daily wash, while his father was forced to quit smoking the Cuban cigars he enjoyed so much. By the time Garland was six, he had a little sister named Adelaide. She didn't suffer from the same respiratory problems as Garland, and wasn't stricken with polio like Jonathan had been. But Adelaide was still expected to attend classes in the attic schoolroom, which was something she resented her brothers for. She begged her parents to send her away to school, but they wouldn't hear of it. For you see, Christopher and Gloria didn't want their sons to feel excluded because of their conditions. They always treated their children equally—especially Christopher, who understood what it felt like to be different. He didn't want his sons to become depressed the way he had after his injury.

"It was _Jonathan_ who was the one to always encourage Garland. Insisting he could have whatever he wanted out of life if he just set his mind in perfect focus. When he reached his late teens, Garland had overcome his childhood illness and went on to college where he became an athlete. His asthma never returned, making it possible for him to lead the sort of active lifestyle he'd always sought."

That was always the thing I found most funny about Grandmother Alicia. How she was unable to restrain herself from going into great detail when it came to her 'tales'. I imagined that in her childhood, she had been the sort to spin tales so fantastic that no one in their right mind had believed them.

Thankfully, my grandmother recovered quickly from her stint of sorrow initiated by what could have proven to be Momma's fatal slip of the tongue. Once more Grandmother Alicia was all smiles, which brought Momma considerable comfort. I knew this because I felt the tension in her hands ease significantly.

"Right this way," said my grandmother, and guided us over to the first door on the right. She pushed it open to reveal the sewing room, which she'd done her best to make into a bedroom for Carrie and me. The walls were the same cream color as those in the foyer, with a setup such as that of our brothers' bedroom. Set against the walls were a pair of twin beds: One with a cotton-candy pink bedspread, while the other bedspread was of royal purple. Between the beds stood a small nightstand with a lamp. Just as it had been in Christopher's and Cory's bedroom, a photograph of Daddy and Momma was displayed on my and Carrie's nightstand. This second photograph depicted our parents standing on the front porch of our former home. It was summer, for Daddy's light polo shirt and Momma's sundress made that very obvious. They looked slightly older than in the last photograph, but their enthusiastic smiles were exactly the same. Above the nightstand was a little window, from which I could make out the silhouette of a tall maple tree. On the other side of the room was the sewing table mentioned previously by Grandmother Alicia. Beside it stood an oak dresser similar to that of Christopher's and Cory's.

Like a blossom flourishing to life right before our eyes, Carrie immediately sprang awake. She was akin to a tornado as she gusted into the sewing room, all but throwing herself down on the bed with the purple bedspread. Apparently, Grandmother Alicia had been told about Carrie's obsession with all things purple and red. For the casing of the pillow on which Carrie would sleep was coquelicotred. Watching her claim that bed was relevant to watching an animal claim its territory. Until the day we left the cottage, I would be stuck with that bed with its cotton-candy bedspread and pillow with its marshmallow-white case. Not that I minded in the least, since pink was my favorite of all colors. Every ballet costume I had ever owned was pink, for I couldn't see myself dancing in any other color.

"Don't you _dare_ think about taking this bed, Cathy!" Carrie warned, one blue eye watching me suspiciously from beneath a cascade of blond tendrils. "It's _mine."_

"Of course it is, darling," Grandmother Alicia highlighted, and winked at me as I lowered myself down onto the bed across from Carrie's.

"I'll leave your suitcase here," Momma said, placing the suitcase in which she'd packed Carrie's and my clothing by the door. "And tomorrow you can unpack."

I was far too tired to sift through the suitcase for my pajamas, and I could tell my small sister shared my sentiments. Although her hair hid most of her face, it was apparent in the stillness of her body that she was already sleep, or close to it. There was no point in waking her. After saying good-night to Momma and Grandmother Alicia, I set about the task of removing Carrie's shoes and socks. I placed them beside the nightstand, along with my own. The rose pink hat I'd worn during our journey was positioned resourcefully on the dresser. The sewing room was deficient in a closet, and so I lay my dress—which matched my hat—over the back of the desk's chair. I had just enough strength left to tuck Carrie into bed, before crawling into my own and switching off the light.

"Good-night, Carrie," I whispered into the darkness.

For the first time in my life, I fell asleep the instant my head hit the pillow.

* * *

I had been far too exhausted to think very hard on what sort of changes would precede Momma's departure. Almost from the moment I'd fallen asleep, I'd descended into dreamland. My thoughts immediately switched over to images of ballerinas in pretty tutus, as they danced through an enchanted forest of lollipop trees and grounds of powdered sugar instead of snow. It was a place where the babbling brook flowed not with water but with pink lemonade, a place where animals spoke in words. Yes, this was my way to escape—my escape from reality, whenever it became too much to bear. I had come here after my father died, only to return again prior to the separation from my mother.

Somewhere in the middle of my dream, I heard a faint voice call out my name. I stopped pirouetting over the lemonade lake's gumdrop bridge and glanced around. At first I thought the voice belonged to the rabbit who'd been watching me from the powdery shore. But when the voice resonated and his lips didn't move, I knew the voice belonged to someone else.

But who? _Who?_

_"Cathy…"_

And then, as quickly as I had surrendered to confusion, I knew. My eyelids fluttered. Although the only light provided was that which filtered through the venetian blinds, I saw her. My mother, who was standing over me, dressed in the same clothes she'd worn the night before. She reached down, and with one slim hand brushed the bangs from my sleepy eyes.

"Don't hate me," she whispered so as not to wake Carrie, who was fast asleep in the bed across from mine. "But after thinking on it, I've decided to go against your advice and take the earliest possible train into Charlottesville. I've already spoken with your grandmother, and she's agreed with me. It'll be better this way—for the twins' sake, at least. You know how they are about goodbyes. This way, they'll be spared as much anguish as possible."

"When will you be back?" Although I had only just woken from a deep sleep, I remembered to keep my voice low.

"In a few days, darling. I can't say how long it will be before we're all together again, but I'll visit as often as I can."

"How often?"

"Every weekend. I can come on Friday mornings and stay until Sunday afternoons."

"That's hardly often, Momma."

She frowned, and then leaned down to kiss my forehead. "I know it seems like a long way off now, but you'll see, Cathy. By this time next year, the four of us will be living in a grand house—an even grander one than what we had back in Gladstone. Would you like that?"

My mother knew me so well. Of _course _I would like that. I nodded and forced myself to smile, which seemed to please her. I watched her turn away briefly and kiss Carrie, doing so carefully so as not to wake her. When Momma pivoted, I saw the light of tears dancing like tiny fairies in her blue eyes.

"Take care of your sister and brothers," she said, "and be a help to your grandmother."

"I will, Momma. I promise."

"I'm going to stop by Christopher's and Cory's room to say good-bye next, and then I'll be off. Farewell, my darling. I'll call you from the station first thing this afternoon."

She had barely finished speaking when I watched her go, her lovely hourglass frame slipping silently through the door like a ghost. It was only after I saw the door close behind her that I lay back down and closed my eyes. I thought I might have trouble going back to sleep, but the sound of Carrie's subdued breathing soon lulled me back to my castle in the sky.


	5. Ch 4: The War Between the Fruits

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews. Chris' 'speed of irony' comment is a homage to Roseanne. The dialogue was inspired by a quote of hers in an episode of her sitcom.

* * *

I awoke with the impression that I was back home in Gladstone. The ear-shattering sound that had jolted me away from dreams of candied surroundings and talking animals was equivalent to that of my alarm clock on the nightstand by my former bed. But I was not in my bedroom in Gladstone, and the sound that threatened to split my head in two was not my alarm clock. I was in the sewing room at Grandmother Alicia's cottage in Richmond, Virginia, and the horrendous sound beating down on my eardrums was the passionate screams of my sister, Carrie.

Her screams were so loud, in fact, I was sure that anyone within a one-hundred-mile radius was convinced that someone was being murdered. Hardly had I expected this _not_ to happen: The twins—who had been on the same schedule from the time they were two years old—had risen at their usual time of seven a.m., and gone in search of Momma. But when my sister had woken and found our mother missing, Carrie had most likely gone into a panic. Our grandmother was sure to have made the mistake of revealing Momma's whereabouts, thus causing Carrie to become even more hysterical.

Stumbling out of bed, I threw on my dress and traced my sister's banshee-like cries to Grandmother Alicia's bedroom. Christopher was already there, sitting with his head buried in his hands on the bed beside her. Cory had scrunched himself up into a tight ball in a corner of the room and covered his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. Though I felt sorry for my brothers, I felt sorrier for Grandmother Alicia. She was doing her best to calm our hysterical Carrie by attempting to wrap her arms around her, but Carrie fought, screamed, and kicked with every ounce of strength she had. Given her lack of sleep, she wasn't putting up much of a fight. The struggle appeared to have reached its inevitable end by the time I arrived.

I stepped through the doorway, and as I did Grandmother Alicia let go of Carrie, who flew like a bird out of its cage across the room. I caught her in my arms, not at all surprised when she began to administer to me what she'd intended to give our grandmother. I was thankful now that I'd not chosen to ignore Carrie's screams. I wasn't sure how much Grandmother Alicia would appreciate being beaten in the shins by a pair of small fists, or bitten on the ankles by teeth as sharp as a snake's fangs.

"Where's Momma?" Carrie demanded angrily, and swatted me on the leg directly above the knee. "I woke up and she was gone! Tell me where she is, Cathy! You better tell me right now!"

"Your mother decided to take the early train into Charlottesville," Grandmother Alicia said, more to me than to Carrie. "She thought it would be better for the sake of you four children."

"In any case," said Christopher tiredly, drawing his hands away from his face, which had gone wan from lack of sleep, "we now know the speed of irony."

Both my grandmother and brother looked as though they'd just spent an eternity in a state of incurable insomnia. Each had dark circles set under their puffy eyes, and appeared as though it would take great effort to move about. My eyes shifted to Cory, who was so still I was sure he had fallen asleep the instant Carrie's tantrum had terminated.

"I suppose our mother didn't mention that Carrie is predisposed to fits of screaming," Christopher explained to our grandmother, just as I managed to catch Carrie's fists before she could direct more strikes to my knees. Her punches weren't really that painful, but when done repeatedly in the same spots they became so. I'd walked away with bruises before, and from the way she'd attacked me this time, I had no doubt I would again.

Taking advantage of the silence, I knelt down in front of Carrie and put my hands on her small shoulders. "Momma is at her parents' house. Well, she isn't there yet, but that's where she's going, in a little white. And that means you've got to be brave, Carrie. You, Cory, Christopher, and me. We're going to stay here with Grandmother Alicia for a while, just until Momma patches things up with her father."

Rubbing at her sleepy, sticky eyes, Carrie looked up at me questionably. "Cathy, what's 'patch up'?"

"It's when you have an argument with someone and then apologize. Like when you want to play with Cory's matchbox cars and he says no, so you punish him by not letting him play with your dolls. Then you patch things up by letting each other play with one another's toys." I didn't have to tell either of the twins what 'punishment' meant. They'd learnt the meaning of _that _word back when we were still living in Gladstone. Momma had been preparing to clean her antique silverware, which she'd left sitting open in its case on the dining room table. Then, the moment her back was turned, Cory and Carrie had taken the forks, spoons, and knives out of their box and used them to dig up holes in the backyard. Their daring feat had earned each of them two spankings—one from Momma and the other from Daddy—and afterward Cory and Carrie were extra careful to never misbehave again.

"Oh," said Carrie then, her tone thoughtful. "Is Momma's daddy mad at her for not letting him play with her toys?"

_If only it were that simple, _I thought, as I gazed into my sister's innocent blue eyes. "I don't know, Carrie."

"How come?"

"Because Momma didn't tell us everything."

"How come?"

"I don't know," I repeated. There Carrie went again with her questions, though I could hardly blame her for being curious. All four of us had yet to hear the full story of what Momma had done to anger her father so greatly all those years ago. I looked over at Grandmother Alicia, who was staring down at her hands. It was a habit of hers that I had picked up on long ago, back when I had asked her how Grandfather Alistair had felt about having photographs of Grandfather Garland displayed alongside his own. Like the question about her missing breasts, that was another question that had gotten me into trouble with Momma. But it was a question worth asking. For in doing so, I'd learned what qualities to recognize in my grandmother, when she knew something but had no intention of revealing it.

"Cathy?"

"What, Carrie?"

"How come Momma didn't tell us nothing?"

"Anything," I corrected.

"Why didn't she?"

"Darling," Grandmother Alicia interrupted. Carrie pivoted, her long, disheveled blond hair flailing with her like tall cattails caught up in a summer's breeze. "How would you like to come into the kitchen and help me make pancakes?"

"With bananas and syrup?"

"I'm afraid I'm out of bananas, though I'll be sure to pick some up the next time I'm at the market. But I do have fresh strawberries."

"Cory can't have strawberries," I responded automatically. "He's allergic." In any other case, I would have been terribly annoyed with Momma for having forgotten yet another vital detail pertaining to one of the twins. But I kept in mind that we had arrived at Grandmother Alicia's house in the early morning hours, and so it probably hadn't occurred to Momma to pass on these important minutiae to our grandmother.

And besides, how could I complain? Momma had looked so sad that morning when we'd exchanged good-byes. It was impossible for me to stay angry with her when already I missed her so much. And I was very grateful for Grandmother Alicia's offer to distract the twins. Cory seemed to sit up the instant he heard the word 'pancakes', and I laughed at the enthusiasm with which he raced over and dove onto the bed. Even Christopher, who was as exhausted as I, couldn't resist the smile that crept around the corner of his mouth.

"Your Uncle Joel was allergic to strawberries, too," Grandmother Alicia replied, as she pulled Cory into her lap. He really seemed taken with her, probably because she looked and behaved so much like Momma. "If he ate just one or anything containing them, his whole face would swell up like a balloon and he'd get hives on the inside of his mouth. I remember once, before I was even aware he had an allergy, I had a box of chocolate-covered strawberries that your Grandfather Garland had given me for Valentine's Day. I thought they would make a nice after-dinner treat for Mal and Joel. Within seconds of having eaten just one strawberry, the little fellow was complaining of how his face and the inside of his mouth itched. I felt absolutely terrible, and of course your Grandmother Olivia blamed the entire thing on me. Even though her husband and your Grandfather Garland were good friends, she never cared much for me. I suppose that blaming me for something I could never have anticipated was her way of letting me know it."

By 'Grandmother Olivia', I knew Grandmother Alicia was referring to Momma's mother. I considered briefly in presenting her with the question as to why this 'Olivia' didn't like her. Did it have anything to do with Olivia's husband's refusal to forgive Momma? Suddenly I was _dying_ of curiosity to know all the secrets of my extended family! But it took only one look of warning from Christopher to dash this desire to pieces.

_Remember what Momma told us, _his eyes seemed to say. _Don't do or say _anything_ that has even the slightest possibility of upsetting Grandmother Alicia._

My brother's warning dropped me—somewhat disappointedly—back into reality. But there was no room for my disappointment, as Grandmother Alicia spoke again.

"What about blueberries? Can Cory and Carrie have anything with blueberries?"

Remembering the blueberry pie Momma had made last summer for when Jim Johnston—Daddy's best friend—and his wife came for dinner at our house. Oh, how quickly the twins had gobbled up that pie and then asked for more! Of course, Momma had not had the heart to begrudge them, and spooned a second (though very small) helping on to each of their plates. And, of course, both twins had thrown up twenty minutes after finishing their second slices of pie. It resulted in a mess Momma never _did _manage to scrub out of Carrie's white frock or Cory's matching white overalls.

"Yes," I replied. "They can have blueberries."

But 'blueberry pancakes' wasn't enough for the delightful Carrie Dollanganger. Oh, no. If she couldn't have hers with strawberries, then she didn't want pancakes _period, _and she let Grandmother Alicia know this.

_"We-ee _don't _like_ pancakes with blueberries! Pancakes with _strawberries _are what we-ee like!"

Of course Cory liked strawberries. He liked anything his shadow responded positively to, and vice versa.

"You can like tobacco-flavored chewing gum for all I care," said Christopher, who had obviously had enough of Carrie's attitude. He was just the only one among us with the courage to admit it. "But it doesn't mean you're going to get it. Strawberries make Cory sick—you don't want him to be sick, do you?"

Carrie didn't answer, but I could easily imagine the concern she felt at the possibility of anything tragic befalling her twin. The two of them were the equivalent of bread and butter—never did you see one without the other. I saw her shake her head vigorously just before Grandmother Alicia did something amazing.

"I can always make _two _batches of pancakes," she offered. "One with strawberries for Carrie, and the other with blueberries for Cory."

"Just so long as it isn't any trouble for you," replied Christopher, who liked strawberries every bit as much as me.

"Don't be silly. It'll be my pleasure to make whatever the hearts of my four lovely grandchildren desire. Oh, that reminds me." Our grandmother smiled, and her eyes shimmered in a way I hadn't seen them shimmer since right before Daddy died. "Your Grandfather Garland had a saying. He always said 'Why start a war when peace is knocking on your door?" She blushed, and I couldn't help but notice how pretty she looked. For it brought out the rosiness in her cheeks, and the light I'd thought had been forever vanquished from her blue eyes returned. It was as though talking about happier times brought back some of what she'd lost when her loved ones had died. "I know what you're thinking," she added, her soft, melodic voice drawing me away from my thoughts. "You're thinking it's cliché, aren't you? Well, I've got news for you four children: Your grandfather may have been cliché in his manner of speaking, but in other areas he was far from old-fashioned. Oh! But you probably don't want to hear one of my long-winded stories—at least, not until you've had your breakfast. So, Chris, Cathy, what would you two like? Pancakes? French toast? If you can't decide now, I can make both, and you can choose later."

For a morning that had started out so chaotically, it was sure shaping up to be a great day. Pancakes _and _French toast for breakfast? Good golly-day, but staying at Grandmother Alicia's cottage was like staying at a four-star hotel! I wondered if Momma would be getting the same treatment at her parents' mansion.

Out of the bedroom my siblings and I marched, though somewhat tiredly. Even so, we felt like characters in a television sitcom as Grandmother Alicia led us down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was a bright, cheery room, with white walls and a black and white-tiled floor. The refrigerator was wedged between the countertop and a china cabinet that housed all kinds of knickknacks at the head of the hallway.

Above the sink was a pair of windows with sunny yellow curtains that looked out across the street, offering a view of the neighboring houses. In the center of the room close to the wall stood a small, circular, wooden table where five chairs. Three of the chairs matched the table, while two were metal folding chairs. I supposed Grandmother Alicia must have acquired the metal ones after finding out how long we'd be staying with her.

Located in a far corner of the room was the stove which, by the looks of it, appeared to be brand new. Funny how I had never taken notice of my grandmother's housekeeping, and I supposed she must have been very good at it. For there wasn't one crumb or speck of dust anywhere to be seen! Nailed to the wall directly above the stove was an embroidered plaque with the words 'God Bless Our Happy Home' stitched in blue lettering, with flowers of a slightly lighter shade around them. As I gazed upon that message, Christopher's former words—"'In any case, we now know the speed of irony'"—came back to me. These words were accompanied by the warning that Momma had given all of us: The warning to always remember to never say a word that would upset Grandmother Alicia.

It was for the sake of our grandmother's fragile state of mind that I bit my tongue, and reminded myself to always be wary of the circle of eggshells surrounding her.


	6. Ch 5: First Impressions

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

"Do you enjoy helping your mother in the kitchen, Cathy?" Grandmother Alicia asked me as she retrieved a skillet from one of the lower cabinets.

I was crouched on the floor before the opened refrigerator, balancing a carton of eggs in my left hand. "Occasionally. Usually my only jobs are in setting the table and cleaning up after meals. When Momma bakes a cake, sometimes she'll let Christopher and me frost it. Grandmother Alicia, where do you keep your milk?"

"What's that, darling?" She was in the process of reaching for a large mixing bowl in one of the middle cabinets. "Oh, there's a container of powdered milk in the upper cupboard. Chris, would you be a dear and get it for me, please? It's the third door on your right."

Carrie was quick to object to the very idea of non-liquid milk. _"We-ee _don't want no weird, powdery milk that looks like sand! We-ee want _real milk!"_

"Remind me to pick up some bottled milk tomorrow when we're at the market," Grandmother Alicia said to me.

"Powdered milk is no different than real milk, Carrie," explained Christopher, who was seated at the table with the twins. "You just have to mix it first. Moreover, it will be in your pancakes, and so you won't even taste it. "

He rose and strode over to where Grandmother Alicia and I were. At fourteen, he was nearly five foot eight and still growing. Everyone acquainted with our family had no doubt that he would grow to be as tall as Daddy, who'd been six foot two.

Effortlessly, Christopher reached up to the higher cupboards and sifted through them until he found the container of powdered milk.

Our grandmother flashed him an appreciative smile as he handed her the container. "Thank you, Chris. My, but I can't tell you how many times I've had to depend on someone tall to assist me! Your Grandmother Olivia, for example, is _exceptionally _tall." She laughed merrily, a sound atone with that of church bells. "Your Grandfather Garland's concern for me increased greatly while I was pregnant with your father. He had quite a scare one afternoon when I ventured up into the attic of Foxworth Hall. I wasn't injured, but he made me promise to never put myself in harm's way again. He didn't even want me to climb the stepladders in either of the libraries until after I'd delivered. From the floor I could only ever reach as far as the third shelf, and even _that_ proved exigent. For the remainder of my pregnancy, I often had to depend on others to obtain for me items I wanted or needed."

"What about now?" asked I, rearing back my head to gaze up at the higher cabinets. "Do you climb the countertops?"

"Goodness, no!" Grandmother Alicia giggled girlishly, her face ablaze with amusement at my question. "I have a stepping stool I use. Although, when I was a little girl, I often did it the other way."

Leaning against the countertop, Christopher flung back his head and laughed. "Ha! Cathy _still _does it that way."

Instantly I was on my feet, my fists balled as I prepared to do battle with my older brother in our grandmother's tiny kitchen. "Christopher Dollanganger, I orderyou to renounce that remark immediately!"

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, a smile curling up one corner of his mouth. "You _order _me? Why, Catherine Doll, have you forgotten which of us is the eldest?"

"Eldest? Who said anything about being the eldest? This is about _respect."_

Having witnessed many an argument between Christopher and me in the past, Cory and Carrie scrambled out of their chairs. They raced to the protective arms of our grandmother, who pressed the twins to her flat bosom as my brother and I faced off.

"Oh, Cathy, just admit it: You're angry because I'm taller than you."

"By a measly five inches!"

"If it's so measly, then why are you shouting?"

"I'm not shouting!"

"Cathy, stop shouting!" wailed Cory, whose sensitive ears I had completely forgotten in my moment of rage.

"Now see what you've done?" asked Christopher in a composed, mocking tone. "You've gone and upset Cory."

"The only one who's upset,"I flared, "is _me!" _They were my final words before I lunged, my hands missing my 'elder' brother by seconds as he turned and escaped through the entryway.

Halfway down the hallway he glanced back at me from over his shoulder and smiled. It was an action that served only to fuel my anger and help me run faster. We were both sprinting on bare feet across the slick, linoleum floor leading to the front door, when there came a knock. Startled by the sound we doubled back, part of me hoping Christopher would fall as payback for his disdainful behavior. But he managed to stay erect, hesitating at the door.

"Who is it?" I asked.

His eyes stayed glued to the door as he answered. "I'm not sure."

"Is it Momma?"

"How can it be? She's still on the train to Charlottesville."

"Maybe she decided not to go and is on her way back here."

It was now that Christopher took the opportunity to turn full circle and meet my eyes. Only this time, his face was devoid of all humor. "That won't be happening, Cathy. She would have called first."

While I knew this to be true, I decided to continue disagreeing as a way to annoy him as he had annoyed me. "Well, what if she couldn't find a phone?"

Christopher, however, was no longer listening. His attention was again on the door, which he opened a moment later to reveal a young girl. The girl appeared to be just around my age, with bushy, dark brown hair that was almost black. As I drew closer, I saw that her eyes were hazel and that she stood only an inch or two shorter than me. She had a small mouth that was turned up into a friendly smile, presenting teeth framed by braces. She was wearing a green plaid dress with a white puritan collar and trim around the sleeves. She had on a pair of black Mary Janes strapped over a pair of white lace ankle socks.

"Hi," she said, and I was pleased to see that her tone was equivalent to her smile. "I live across the street. I've come to—"She paused, and squinted her eyes. "We don't…know each other, do we? You both look _awfully_ familiar to me."

"No, I don't believe so. I'm Christopher Dollanganger, and this is my sister, Cathy."

"I'm Caren Radcliffe." She extended her right arm and pressed her palm against one side of the doorframe. She then extended her left hand, shaking Christopher's and then mine. "Is Mrs. Aldridge home?"

"She's in the kitchen," he replied, "with our brother and sister."

"Making pancakes," I added.

"Would it be all right if I spoke to her?"

Christopher and I saw nothing wrong with that. Together, we led Caren down the hallway and into the kitchen. When we arrived, we were welcomed by a heavenly aroma that filled the entire room and wafted into our nostrils. Grandmother Alicia was standing at the stove, her back to us, while Carrie and Cory sat at the table eating toast with marmalade.

"Hello, Mrs. Aldridge," Caren greeted, before either Christopher or I had a chance to announce to our grandmother that she had a guest.

Grandmother Alicia pivoted so swiftly, that I had a vision of the pancake she'd been preparing to flip hitting the ceiling rather than the skillet. "Why, hello, there, Caren! How are you? How's your family?"

"Great—we're all great. My mother's having a garden party on Saturday and wanted me to tell you you're invited."

"How wonderful! Tell her I'll be happy to come. Is there anything special I can bring?"

"Anything but a Jell-O mold. At our Fourth of July celebration, nearly _everyone_ brought one and they all ended up rotting in our refrigerator. Which, if you think about it, gives a whole new meaning to the term 'Jello-O _mold'."_

Caren's explanation triggered guffaws from both Christopher and me, while Grandmother Alicia simply smiled.

"Oh!" Grandmother Alicia exclaimed. "Where are my manners? Caren, these are my four gorgeous grandchildren. This handsome young man is Christopher, and the stunning young woman beside him is Cathy. You may be a bit young to remember, but the three of you often played together when they came for visits with their parents. And these two precious angels"—she came away from the stove and placed a hand on each of the twins' shoulders—"are Carrie and Cory."

"Ah!" Caren exclaimed, and smacked her forehead. _"That's _why I thought for sure I knew you from somewhere. It turns out _you're _the Yankee relatives Mrs. Aldridge is always talking about."

With the exclusion of the baseball team, I had never heard the word 'Yankee' before in my life, let alone been referred to as one. Having no idea how to respond to such a comment (or was it a criticism?), I waited silently for someone else to step in.

It came as no surprise when Christopher volunteered, and I could tell by his tone that he didn't care in the least for Caren's remark. "Yes. Theoretically, you're correct. My siblings and I were born and raised in Pennsylvania, but we have a southern bloodline. Our great-grandfather fought in the War Between the States…did our grandmother ever tell you that?"

I couldn't help but be struck by Caren's astounded expression. Clearly she had never met anyone who was both as smart as Christopher and not yet in college. So proud was I of him at that moment that I found myself struggling with the smile aiming to take over my face. I didn't want Caren Radcliffe assuming I believed I was better than she simply because of who my brother was.

"Caren, have you eaten breakfast yet?" Grandmother Alicia asked, spooning the first batch of pancakes onto a large plate. "You're more than welcome to stay and have pancakes with us."

"Thank you, but I can't. I've got a clarinet lesson and my teacher hates it when I'm late."

"Another time, then. It was a pleasure seeing you, and be sure to thank your mother for that invitation."

"I will. Good-bye, Mrs. Aldridge." Waving to us, Caren backed her way out of the kitchen and into the hallway. "It was nice meeting all of you."

"Hold up," Christopher called, and dashed after her. "Let me walk you to the door."

I rolled my eyes. Were boys _always_ this difficult to figure out? One minute Christopher had been reprimanding Caren, and the next he was playing the role of the courtly gentleman. Gosh-golly, but his behavior could sure rattle my brain at times!

"She's certainly a delight, isn't she?" Grandmother Alicia commented, as she began to serve breakfast.

"Who? Caren?" I shrugged, sliding into a seat beside Carrie. "Yeah. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was related to the Marx Brothers."

"Don't mind what she said before. Your Grandfather Garland often said things like that, but never in a cruel method. Why, I remember the first time Malcolm introduced us to Olivia. When Garland found out she was from New London, Connecticut, his exact words were "'Oh, a Yankee, eh?'" I laughed at the way my grandmother's voice deepened with the impersonation of her first husband. "He was concerned that Olivia and I might not get on, taking into account that I was from Richmond, Virginia."

"But you were able to prove him wrong in the end," I confirmed. "Weren't you?"

"In a way I was." As she spoke, Grandmother Alicia spooned blueberries out of a small bowl and onto Cory's pancakes. She did the same for Carrie's, except her fruit of choice was strawberries. "Olivia and I didn't become what you'd call friends, but we tolerated each other. Or rather, it was _she _who tolerated _me."_

"Did she dislike you?"

"That," said my grandmother, and sat down across from me, "is something I was never able to figure out."

"I remember when my best friend, Mary Lou Baker, got a new kitten," I said. "I was so jealous because we couldn't have one on account of Cory being allergic. Christopher said that every time I saw that kitten was the _only_ time he saw my eyes a color other than blue. Maybe Grandmother Olivia was jealous of something _you_ had."

Grandmother Alicia gave an apprehensive smile, as if she were hesitant to answer my question. Then she reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. "You're right, Cathy, darling. She _was _jealous of something I had. But it had nothing at all to do with material possessions."

"What did it have to do with, then?"

"My marriage." Grandmother Alicia smiled another tense, uneasy smile. "And the devotion between your Grandfather Garland and myself."

As if true love were a crime against humanity, she lowered her eyes guiltily to her plate. Not since sitting down at the table had she expressed an interest on what was on it, and I saw nothing in her conduct that told me she would.

At least, not any time soon.

Without a word, I picked up my fork and began to eat my pancakes before they, too, grew too cold to enjoy.


	7. Ch 6: Rising Suspicions

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews. Help with diner description courtesy of Wikipedia.

* * *

An entire day passed, and not one word from Momma. Grandmother Alicia did her best to lift our spirits, telling us that our mother was worn out from her trip and that she'd call us in the morning. Our grandmother's words seemed to be precisely what Christopher needed to set his mind at ease. He spent the remainder of the afternoon upstairs in his and Cory's room, studying the information in the medical encyclopedias of Grandfather Alistair. I, alternatively, was not so fortunate. Truly, I felt there was nothing that could be done to keep the tourniquet of pain from wrapping itself forcefully around my heart.

For the time being, Cory and Carrie appeared to have recovered from their separation from our mother. Presently the twins were in the backyard with Grandmother Alicia, who was showing them all the wonders of the swing-set. When I'd gone to peer through the parlor window at them earlier, I had no doubt my grandmother was one of those people who enjoyed the company of children. Daddy had been the same way when it came to us, his children. Always did he have time for a game of trains with Christopher, or one of dinosaurs with Cory. Never had Daddy minded relinquishing his masculinity for an hour or so to have a tea party with Carrie, or to play dolls with me.

It was the dear memories of my beloved father that suppressed my pessimism as I watched my grandmother amuse herself with a child's toy. I heard the faint sound of her childish laughter through the windowpane, paying heed to the smile on her face as the twins ran to embrace her as she came down the slide. Carrie and Cory had taken quicker to Grandmother Alicia than Christopher and I had expected. Normally Carrie blatantly refused to speak to anyone she had never met or didn't know well, while Cory was indescribably shy. But each related to Grandmother Alicia as a child does Santa Claus. She was Daddy's mother, and yet her appearance and personality was an immaculate counterpart to that of Momma's.

Having no idea _what _to think, I returned to Grandmother Alicia's stepping stool by the telephone in the kitchen. I had done little else all afternoon but sit there on her stepping stool, leaving only to use the bathroom. Determined was I to sit and wait, until the telephone rang and I heard Momma's voice.

The phone still hadn't rung when Grandmother Alicia and the twins came back inside. She announced that we would be going out to dinner and for Cory and Carrie to inform Christopher. Christopher was still upstairs studying, while I had remained loyally by the phone, waiting for a call that I was beginning to think might never come.

"Have you heard anything from your mother yet?" asked my grandmother, as the sound of the twins' feet bounding down the hallway echoed off the cottage's walls. The pity in her voice revealed that, although she knew the answer, still wanted to offer me her compassion.

I shook my head.

"Don't worry, darling. It isn't that she's forgotten you—she just has a lot to contend with at the moment." As she continued, the innocence faded from her face and a veil of wistfulness came over it. "If you ever have the opportunity to meet your grandfather—and I pray to God you never do—then you'll understand the daunting authority he has over others."

"Momma says he's very angry with her for something she did long ago." I desperately wanted to ask Grandmother Alicia what that 'something' was, but knew it was unlikely that I'd receive an answer; no less a truthful one.

"Yes, Cathy, there's that…"

I couldn't stop myself. All of a sudden I blurted out the question I'd been longing to ask ever since Momma had received that letter from her parents. "Grandmother Alicia, do _you _know what Momma's secret is?"

"I do," Grandmother Alicia said, and I had to admire her for at least being honest with me, "though I don't feel _I'm _the right person to tell you."

"Then who is?"

"Your mother. The decision is hers alone, of course. But I can assure you that the only reason she's chosen to keep the truth from you for so long is to avoid hurting you—and, quite possibly, to avoid hurting herself."

"Why? What was so terrible that would cause her to think such things?"

"It's as I said before, Cathy: It isn't my place to disclose to you any information on the subject."

Disappointed but respectful of my grandmother's wishes, I nodded my understanding. Grandmother Alicia came over and hugged me just as Carrie and Cory returned with Christopher.

"So," asked the cheerful optimist, "what's for dinner?"

Twenty minutes later the five of us were all piling out of Grandmother Alicia's tan station wagon in front of Millie's Diner. Like many diners of the 1950s, Millie's was built of stainless steel panels, where a red neon sign displaying the name flashed brightly above through the onyx sky. Two sets of stairs led up to a pair of light green doors (one for entering and the other for exiting) on either side of the restaurant.

The inside was a welcoming sight indeed, with white walls decorated in celebrity memorabilia of the time; including framed photographs of famous entertainers, such Marlon Brando and James Dean; there was even a _Gone with the Wind _poster with an illustration of Rhett Butler passionately kissing Scarlett O'Hara.

At one end of the diner were a number of red, cushiony booths, where at the other stood the combination bar and countertop. To the far right of the entrance was a large, red jukebox where a group of teenagers were enjoying the vocals of Elvis Presley.

Although it had been four years since Christopher and I had been to Richmond, Virginia, our memories of Millie's diner were still as vivid as they had been then. It was the place where we'd shared so many delicious meals and unforgettable conversations with our parents and grandmother. Each time the four of us had come to visit Grandmother Alicia, she'd treated us all to dinner at the restaurant. The owner of the diner, Millie Friedman, had expressed the same interest in us as that of our acquaintances back in Gladstone. Each time we came to her diner, Millie had greeted us at the entrance and announced to everyone in an excessively loud voice that "The Dresden Dolls have just arrived!" As a child such a salutation had delighted me, but if it was done now I knew my face was apt to flush bright red.

So taken was Millie by our little family that she had insisted upon snapping a photograph to display on the wall of her restaurant. I was all for it, and so was Christopher—until Momma blanched and Daddy went off on some absurd explanation of how people with pale complexions and fare hair need to limit the number of times they're photographed month to month.

"There's believed to be something in the flash," he clarified, "that causes skin cancer."

Either Millie had honestly believed him, or she had no intention of arguing with him; for she never offered to photograph us again after that.

The following day when I informed Mary Lou Baker of this, she'd laughed in my face and told me my father was crazy. "Not only that, Cathy, but you're crazy for _believing _such a tall tale!"

After that I'd pushed her down in the mud, giving neither hide nor hair about the soiling of the new white dress that her mother had bought her for church. All the way home I had run, ignoring her irate cries of "I'm gonna tell my mother on you, Cathy Dollanganger! And believe it when I say you'll be sorry!"

But I _wasn't_ sorry. Not even a little. Mary Lou Baker had it coming the minute she opened her big mouth and insulted Daddy. She had known me long enough to gain a thorough understanding of what lines she could and could not cross with me. And she'd crossed the _ultimate _line when she'd snubbed my father. It wasn't so much my own reputation I was defending as it was _his._

Just as she had every other time we'd come into her restaurant, Millie waved to us the moment she spotted us. In no time at all she had rounded the corner and was hurrying in our direction. As she ran, her enormous breasts bounced like a pair of large melons. She was big woman, and her breasts were packed into a uniform that was too small on top to fully conceal them. She had curly, dark brown hair that was cropped long on top and short at the bottom. She had kind, grayish-blue eyes and a warm smile that never failed to make you feel welcome and at home in her restaurant.

As soon as she reached us, Millie grinned and slapped her hands against her huge hips. "Well, well, well. If it isn't my three favorite customers. Why, I'll be darned!" Her eyes flicked from Christopher to me, measuring us up. "But you two have certainly grown since the last time I saw you. What grades might you be going into this year?"

"I'll be entering my first year of high school," Christopher answered proudly.

"And I'll be starting my second year of junior high," I replied, though without the eagerness of my brother. I had never cared much for school, preferring to practice my ballet over an activity as tedious as learning about things for which I had little to no interest.

"Unbelievable! It seems like just yesterday you were ten and eight years old. My goodness, how time flies!" Millie's eyes then drifted to the twins, who had resorted to clinging to Grandmother Alicia at the sight of the big, hefty woman. So much for my hope of Carrie and Cory conquering their fear of strangers. "Oh. And who might these two young'uns be?"

"These are my two littlest grandchildren," Grandmother Alicia replied proudly. "Carrie and Cory."

Cory turned to hide his face in the crook of our grandmother's arm, while Carrie merely chose to look away.

"They're twins," our grandmother added, as if this fact was capable of shedding light on their behavior.

Unlike most of the adults I knew, Millie wasn't the type to take the conduct of children—especially those as young as Carrie and Cory—personally. After winking at the twins, she raised her hand to the side of her face and shouted: "The Dresden Dolls have just arrived!"

Oh, good-golly, but I could have keeled over and died right there! My face brimming with the onset of scarlet humiliation, I lowered my head and followed my family and Millie to our assigned booth. All the while I was praying to be seated by the window, just to be able to gaze out and avoid the stares of the customers.

Thankfully I got my wish, and immediately scooted over to the inside of the booth before Millie had even put down the first menu. Christopher slid in beside me, while Grandmother Alicia and the twins sat across from us.

"I was so sorry to hear about your son, Alicia," Millie said, her enthusiasm no longer her prized asset. "He's one whose presence has been greatly missed around here."

Grandmother Alicia smiled faintly. "Thank you, Millie. Your words are truly a comfort to us."

"I don't mean to pry, but where is _Mrs. _Dollanganger? There hasn't been a time I can remember where she wasn't with you."

"She'll be in Pennsylvania for the next few weeks, getting some of Christopher's affairs in order. Until they're settled, the children will be staying with me."

Christopher and I swapped an expression of uncertainty. It was so unlike our grandmother to tell a fib, and yet I knew—as I'm sure Christopher knew—that she had her reasons. What those reasons were I had no idea, and yet they were reasons that would eventually uncover the secrets of our family.

"You're a saint, Alicia," Millie said. "I've always believed it, but actions speak louder than words, as they say. And your actions are as loud as they come."

Millie excused herself, only to return a few minutes later to take our orders. We gave them to her and then watched her disappear once more, this time to the back of the restaurant where the kitchen was.

Eventually our meals arrived, and we ate in singular silence. My mind was whirling with all sorts of questions; questions about why Momma had left us in the care of our grandmother; questions about what sort of secret Grandmother Alicia was covering up for Momma; and questions about why my grandmother had just lied about something that didn't even seem _worth_ lying about.

As I washed down the last of my cheeseburger with a swig of Coke, I vowed that as soon as we heard from Momma, I would confront her with the questions that had plagued my mind from almost the moment Daddy had died. It wasn't fair of her to keep us, her own flesh and blood, in the shadows, simply because we were children. I may have been young, but I was still old enough to know that we deserved more credit than that.

Much, _much more._

The telephone was ringing off the hook when we returned to Grandmother Alicia's cottage later that night. Like one of the wild beasts Grandfather Garland had hunted during his safari days, I pursued that telephone as if it were my prey, racing madly down the hallway to the kitchen where I quickly snatched up the receiver.

I flung myself down on my grandmother's stepping stool as I answered. "Hello?"

My heart raced as I anticipated the response of the caller. For several excruciating seconds, the only resonation was that of shallow breathing. I was preparing to repeat my question, when a faint cry echoed from the other line.

"Momma!"

"_Oh, Cathy, is that you?"_

Upon my relief in finally—_finally!_—hearing from her, I failed to notice the huskiness in her voice, or the effort it apparently took her to form each word.

"Yes. Yes, Momma, it's me. Where are you? Are you in Charlottesville? Or at your parents' mansion? Why didn't you call us this afternoon like you promised you would?" I fired one question after the other, desperate to know _exactly_ why she'd taken so long to get in touch with us. "Did the train let you off at the wrong depot? Was the phone there out of order? Do your parents not have one?" I realized how silly that last question sounded…why _wouldn't _people as wealthy as Momma's parents have a phone? Golly-lolly, but they probably had one for every room—even the bathroom!

"_I'm so sorry."_ The shame in Momma's voice made me feel guilty for being so demanding of her. _"I had planned to call you from the station, but my parents had sent Lucas, their chauffeur, to retrieve me. He was already there when I arrived, and so I hadn't time to go in search of a phone."_

Her excuse struck me as not only unconvincing, but unpardonable, and I let her know it as delicately as I could. "You couldn't have asked him to wait while you made the phone call?"

She whimpered in my ear, a sound which served as extra fuel for my remorse.

"_Oh, darling,_ _I_ wanted_ to call you…I just_ couldn't._ My parents are very strict when it comes to punctuality—especially my father—and so I couldn't keep them waiting."_

"You could have called when you arrived. Told them you had _children _waiting to hear from you. I sat by the phone all afternoon, just to be sure I wouldn't miss your call!" I was angry with her now for noshing out excuses instead of just being honest with me. It was one of the things that separated her from my grandmother. "When you didn't, I thought something _terrible_ had happened! I thought the train had crashed!"

"Something bad happened to Momma?" Cory asked fearfully.

I twisted my head to see him staring at me from across the room. The eyes of him _and _Carrie were equipped to fill with tears if someone didn't say something to guarantee our mother's safety.

"No," Christopher answered for me. His own eyes were ablaze with irritation for my inadvertent, yet foolish, slip of the tongue. "Of course it didn't."

A firm yet reassuring hand on my shoulder prevented me from anything else I would regret. I raised my head to see Grandmother Alicia, whose blue eyes reflected an ocean of concern for everyone—even Momma. It was enough to completely drain away my irritation, replacing it with indignity for myself and compassion for my mother.

Turning back to the phone I said, "Yes, Momma, of course I understand that you couldn't help those things. And I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have yelled."

"_No, Cathy. You have every right to be upset with me. I let you down, and I deserve any punishment you see fit to give me."_

"No one wants to punish you, Momma."

There was a long, drawn out pause on the other line, broken eventually by my mother's heartbreaking sobs.

"_Momma, what's wrong?" _I was in a panic now, terrified that the insolence I'd shown her had wounded her more than I thought (oh, if only I had known how ironic that concept would soon prove). "Why do you sound so sad? Are you ill?"

"_I'm not ill, darling. Just very tired."_

"Maybe you should rest then, and call us tomorrow."

"No, Cathy!" Carrie objected. "I wanna talk to Momma _now!"_

Just as she had that morning in her bedroom, Grandmother Alicia used her beguiling ways to terminate Carrie's tantrum before it could take off. "Cathy, it's getting late. Why don't you and Chris take the twins upstairs and give them each a bath? Afterward, the two of you can wash up. I'll be up in a little while to say good-night."

Christopher and I both agreed, and I wished Momma good-night before relinquishing the telephone to my grandmother. As I departed the kitchen with my siblings, I glanced once over my shoulder at Grandmother Alicia. Her hand layered the mouthpiece of the telephone as she spoke to Momma, and I wondered what it was they could possibly be discussing.

I was forced to put this thought out of my mind as I gave Carrie her bath. Because it was late (nearly nine o'clock), she didn't give me as much trouble as she usually did, and I was able to get her washed and into her pajamas in just under twenty minutes. Then it was Christopher's turn to come in and help Cory, who nearly nodded off inside the tub until Christopher splashed his face with water. Cory managed to stay awake long enough after that to finish his bath and allow Christopher to button his pajama top.

Carrie, on the other hand, announced that she wasn't in the least bit tired, and that she wouldn't sleep unless it was by Cory's side.

"Do you think Grandmother Alicia will mind the twins sleeping together?" I said to Christopher.

"Why should she mind? Whenever you and I came for overnight visits with Momma and Daddy, we _always_ slept in his old room."

"Yes, but it's probably a good idea to ask permission first."

"Fine. You go get permission if you want to. In the meantime, I'm going into the bathroom to take a shower."

Christopher departed Daddy's bedroom where the four of us had all gathered. I followed shortly, but not before seeing to it that the twins were nestled safely together like a pair of newborn kittens in Cory's bed. They would almost certainly be asleep before Christopher or I returned.

As I descended the stairway, I prayed with all my might that Grandmother Alicia would grant us her permission for Carrie and Cory to sleep in the same bed. I was less than halfway down the stairs when I heard Christopher start the shower in the upstairs bathroom, followed by Grandmother Alicia's voice. Was she still on the telephone with Momma?

With great care I moved down the remaining steps, my grandmother's voice escalating in sound and becoming clearer the closer I came to the bottom. When I reached it, I rounded the balustrade and flattened myself against the wall, moving stealthily toward the kitchen.

I paused beside the china cabinet, stretching myself as tall as I could on tiptoe (_point, _I thought, remembering the many hundreds of hours I had spent in ballet classes) to hide myself from Grandmother Alicia's view if she happened to glance out into the hallway.

"…Corrine, I _implore _you to leave Foxworth Hall straight away. _Tonight,_ if possible. Even as an invalid, your father is no less a madman now than when _I _knew him. If you don't leave now, then I fear he might—"

Oh, how I despised eavesdropping—I always felt so guilty afterward! And yet, Grandmother Alicia's words kept me hanging like a fish from the hook of a fishing pole. It made precise sense now why Momma had taken so long to call, and why she'd sounded so distraught when at last she had. Poor Momma, and _damn _the grandfather for doing whatever it was he had to upset her so!

"Stay the night in a motel," Grandmother Alicia persisted, "and tomorrow take the train back to Richmond. I promise that together we'll figure out a solution to all of this. You have the skills required to work in a boutique or grocery store, whether you know it or not. All my life I was taken care of, and so after Alistair died I didn't think I would be able to stand on my own. But I soon learned that I didn't need a man or anyone else to support me. I used my flair with the piano as a way to support my son and myself. Don't you _see,_ Corrine? You don't _need _your father's forgiveness _or _his money to live the life you and your children deserve."

Grandmother Alicia said nothing more after that, and hardly any time at all passed before I heard the telephone being returned to its receiver. Afraid she might emerge from the kitchen and see me, I quickly and quietly stole back to the stairway, eager to inform Christopher of what I'd discovered.


	8. Ch 7: Grandmother Alicia's Lament

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

**A/N: **I would just like to thank all of you who have taken the time to read and review this story. I am delighted that it's been met with such approval, and I promise to continue updating as frequently as possible.

~mel

* * *

Like a flash of lightning I bolted up the stairway, my heart pounding and my mind racing in response to all I had just heard. How someone like the grandfather, who was supposedly laying on his deathbed, could be a 'madman' went well beyond all logical deliberation. I hadn't heard enough of Grandmother Alicia's conversation to draw upon any fixed conclusions. The conversation itself had been one-sided, and so there was no way to tell what would occur next. The situation itself was beginning to feel like some sort of twisted fairytale. Momma played the part of the fair princess imprisoned behind the locked doors of her parents' castle; while the rest of us, her loyal subjects, prayed for her safe return.

I was as quiet as possible as I rounded the corner at the top of the stairway and made for the bathroom. Christopher was still in the shower when I arrived. Using my fist, I rapped softly on the door, hoping the faint noise would be enough to capture his interest. His showers tended to last longer than were necessary, and I didn't have all night to wait. Especially since Grandmother Alicia might be coming up the stairs at any moment.

"Yes?" came Christopher's muffled voice from behind the door.

"Christopher." I made sure to speak in a hushed tone in case Carrie and Cory were asleep. "I've got something to tell you."

"Can it wait, Cathy? I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"No, it _cannot _wait. It's terribly important that I tell you what I've discovered about the grandfather."

"So? Go ahead. I'm listening."

"According to Grandmother Alicia, he's a madman. I think…I think he may even be planning to do something terrible to Momma, if he hasn't already."

If any topic was guaranteed to pique my brother's interest, it was one involving our mother. Although I never permitted myself to dwell on it, in my heart I knew it was Christopher she loved best. When saying good-night to us, her kisses for him always lasted extra long, and every morning before we left for school, her hugs were highly suggestive of her unwillingness to let him go. Even after the twins were born, Momma's affection for her firstborn hadn't faltered.

That had been the difference between her and Daddy. While Momma had never attempted to shield her favoritism of Christopher, Daddy had loved all of us equally. If he'd had a favorite, then there was never anything in his actions to indicate it (though there were times I suspected that favorite was I). He had always gone out of his way to make all four of us feel appreciated, special, and, above all, loved. His was a trait he believed had been passed on to him by his stepfather, who'd always treated him like his own son. Grandfather Alistair had never had a child of his own. Daddy suspected it had something to do with a question he'd asked his mother once, about wanting a little sister. For some unknown reason, Grandmother Alicia's eyes had filled with tears. Afterward the subject had been dropped, never to be brought up again.

Then Daddy brought Momma home to Richmond, and Grandmother Alicia had, as my parents put it, "been reborn into the charming, incandescent girl of her youth". She and Momma were exceptionally close—closer than any mother and daughter-in-law I'd ever known. They rarely argued, and when they did it was over petty differences, such as what color tablecloth went best with which china. Like our neighbors in Gladstone had often commented on the similarities between Momma and Daddy, Grandmother Alicia's neighbors in Richmond believed that she and Momma looked more like mother and daughter than mother and daughter-_in-laws._ These details concerning my family had always puzzled me, and Christopher, too, and yet it was these details that made us who we were. While most people had to wait to grow up before discovering who they were, my siblings and I had known it from birth. It was nice, feeling so blessed, and we regarded our unique family as a gift from God.

My observation concerning Momma and the grandfather initiated a click from the other side of the door. It opened to reveal Christopher, who was standing before me in a towel, his flaxen hair freshly drenched. Droplets of water were scattered like tiny, shimmering crystals across his shoulders and chest, which was just beginning to broaden.

"Okay," he said, "you've got my attention. So, what's all this I hear about the grandfather being a madman?"

"It's what Grandmother Alicia said."

"To who? You?"

"No, to Momma. When I went downstairs to ask about the sleeping arrangements, Grandmother Alicia was still on the phone with her."

I repeated to Christopher everything our grandmother had said, as well as go over with him all I suspected. He listened carefully, not saying a word until I'd concluded my account.

"I'll admit you shouldn't have spied on our grandmother, Cathy, but I'm glad you did. At least now we have an understanding of the type of person our mother's father is. Not a very clear understanding, but a better one than what we had when we first came here."

"Do you think it's true about what Grandmother Alicia said? Do you think the grandfather will do something awful to Momma?"

"I don't know…it's difficult to say, considering we're going by just one side of the conversation. But let's not worry too much about it. Our mother is a resilient woman. If she finds herself in danger, then she'll find a way to escape it."

It was easy for my brother to come to such gratifying conclusions. Long ago he had put our mother on a pedestal, believing firmly in the idea that she was perfect and never made mistakes. He may have been a genius when it came to doing well in school, but it was _I _who was able to see people for what and who they were. Just because I loved our mother every bit as much as Christopher, there was no denying she had her flaws. During her marriage to Daddy, she had depended on him financially; after he'd died, the weight of finding a way to support herself and four children had fallen on her shoulders. She loved us all dearly, but that didn't excuse the fact that she was frivolous with money, having desired luxuries we couldn't afford. Daddy had attempted several times to discuss with Momma the importance of living frugally, but she wouldn't hear of it. Instead she'd pleaded with her large, blue eyes and by batting her long, curly lashes until he saw things her way. In the end he always did, giving into her every whim. It was as if Momma believed that money was something you got from trees, rather than something you earned through the labors of hard work."

"Grandmother Alicia seemed to have a difficult time convincing Momma to leave Foxworth Hall," I explained to Christopher. "The last thing she said before hanging up the phone was that Momma doesn't need the grandfather's money to live a happy life."

"Don't you remember what Momma told us right before we left Gladstone? How she doesn't have any skills that will help her find a well-paying job?"

"Grandmother Alicia didn't think she had any skills, either, after Grandfather Alistair died. But _she _manages to get by."

"What are you proposing our mother do, Cathy? Learn to play the piano? That could take _years."_

His apathy was starting to wear on me. If he didn't know it then, then he was sure going to now: "Don't you _dare _think that I don't see where you're going with this, Christopher Doll. You're worried that if the grandfather doesn't forgive Momma and she takes a job at a grocery store, then you won't get into medical school. Well la-dee-da, and ho-ho-ho! I guess when it comes to your own happiness, no one else's matters, does it? Boy, oh, boy, are you ever selfish!"

Christopher all but jumped at my accusation, seizing the corner of the towel to keep it from loosening from around his waist. Waving his finger in my face like some impatient school teacher, he snapped ruthlessly, "Now, you listen to _me, _Cath-er-ine,"—the name he used when he was either very annoyed with me, or very pleased—"I _am not _selfish, nor am I concerned by the possibility of not getting into medical school. Once I turn sixteen I shall begin working, and in a few years I'll have earned enough to attend college. I'll probably even be awarded a few scholarships. I'll continue to produce salaries and earn more scholarships throughout college. And by the time I graduate, I'll be able to afford medical school on my own.

"So you see, my dear sister, I have my own plans in case Momma's don't work out. I'll admit it will be nice to pay for college and medical school with her inheritance, but it's like putting the cart before the horse. Our mother knows exactly what she's doing—don't ever doubt that—and she's doing what she's doing not just for herself, but for _all _of us. So have faith in her. Just bear in mind that no plan is perfect, and hers is sure to have its share of obstacles. As such, we can't allow our hopes to rise too high, or else we're apt to be disappointed."

"Do you _really _think Momma is safe where she is?" I asked.

"My faith in that idea is as strong as my faith in _her._ So no, Cathy. I don't doubt it."

"Not even for a moment?"

"Not even for a moment. Now, go away please, so I can get dressed."

Dutifully I adhered to my brother's request, stepping back from the entryway and watching the door shut in my face.

* * *

It was the dead of night when I awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in my bed beside Christopher, who could, literally, sleep through anything. An earthquake could shake the entire cottage, and he wouldn't so much as stir.

Grandmother Alicia hadn't come up until all four of us were asleep. Since she had woken Christopher and me only briefly to say good-night, I was set in my decision that she didn't mind the idea of us sharing a room, or of the twins sharing a bed. Our grandmother wasn't one to make such asinine judgments over such things, and I couldn't think of anyone in the world who would.

It took me a few seconds to shake off the sleepy feeling and realize why I'd woken so unexpectedly. At first I thought my interrupted sleep was the result of the traffic outside, which was inclined to be a bit noisy now and then. And so I sat quietly, listening closely for the sound of a car or delivery truck speeding down the road; when I heard nothing, I assumed that whatever traffic there was had already passed. It was either that, or I'd woken with a start for no apparent reason, as was inclined to be the case at times.

I was in the process of settling back down again, when an eerie sound snatched my attention like someone snatching a rabbit up by the ears.

I jolted, listening closely as the sound pierced the air like a canon. It was highly connotative to the echo of moaning—a moaning that was taking place right outside my door!

Briefly I pondered over whether or not to waken Christopher. He was always telling me how I allowed myself to become frightened too often and that it was 'high time I grew up'. Not wanting to face any of his criticisms—not to mention potential anger, given that it was very late at night—I swallowed my fear and slid out of bed.

Bravely I padded my way across the room to the door through the pitch blackness, the moaning seeming to heighten with every step I took. My hand trembling, I seized hold of the knob and slowly turned it, the creak of the door shattering the silence like glass.

The foyer was unlit, though when I glanced to my right I found myself the object of Grandfather Garland's cerulean eyes. Illuminating the painting was a bright, orange glow, making it appear as though his spirit had returned to haunt the hallway of Grandmother Alicia's cottage. A scream was building in my throat, but it faded midway as my eyes fell across a small figure crouched before the painting.

Stepping through the door, I began to slowly approach the figure. I was prepared to turn tail and run back to the sewing room if it turned out to be an intruder or—quite possibly—a ghost. But as I drew closer I realized that the figure was no intruder, let alone a ghost. It was Grandmother Alicia, and she appeared to be deeply immersed in some sort of prayer.

"My darling, even in death you've never failed to give me strength." Her voice sounded hoarse, as if she'd spent the last hour crying. "It was your memory that helped me survive nine, torturous months locked away in that attic prison. After Alistair died, all I had to do was think of how the two of you had loved me, and I could face the days ahead. Then when I discovered I had cancer, I thought back to that terrible night, when you fought so hard to protect me. How you refused to give up the ghost until you knew Malcolm was incapable of doing me harm. You sacrificed your life to ensure my safety; you were always so gallant, and even though many years have passed, I still haven't forgotten that gallantry. I haven't forgotten you, either, my love, just as I have never stopped loving you. Oh, Garland, if only you were here _now._ For I desperately need your help…"

Standing stark still, and desperate to hear more, I felt like a statue perceiving the personal exchanges between mortals.

"Christopher is dead," Grandmother Alicia continued, "and Corrine refuses to see how things truly are with Malcolm. Each time I attempt to speak with her about her father, she tunes me out. She doesn't see the kind of man he is, just as I didn't, until it was too late. I fear for Corrine, for she is so like I was after you died. She's so afraid, a young mother all alone in the world. I keep telling her she can make something of herself if only she would make the effort. I regret now for not confronting Malcolm and Olivia when I had the chance. If I had, then Malcolm wouldn't have spoiled Corrine, and made her believe that beauty is the key to getting what you want. If I hadn't been such a coward, then I would have whisked her away and given her a life full of love rather than assets."

What on Earth was my grandmother talking about? What had the grandfather attempted to do to her that had resulted in Grandfather Garland's death? He had died of heart failure!

Had my grandmother known Momma longer than my siblings and I had been led to believe? And what was all this talk of Grandmother Alicia having spent nine months locked away in an attic? No one had ever told us that! Oh, why were the adults so determined to spare my siblings and me the details of our family's history?

All at once I heard a sharp release of breath, followed by the orange glow lighting up Grandfather Garland's face going out. The sound of my grandmother's dressing gown rustling against the floorboards was my cue to hightail it away.

It was with the agile movements of a fox that I pivoted and hurried back to the sewing room, closing the door just before Grandmother Alicia passed it. I then turned and dashed hastily across the room, flinging myself into bed and inviting the reassuring feeling that comes with every close call.


	9. Ch 8: Apprehensions of Innocents

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

After uncovering the minimal yet bewildering truths about Grandmother Alicia and my mother's father, sleep became an unfeasible aspiration. I spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning, until finally, my body and mind beleaguered by exhaustion, I fell into a troubled sleep. Always had sleep brought to me dreams of salvation, but not now. Now, on this night, the only upshots sleep delivered were nightmares; nightmares suggesting what my grandmother had gone through, and what my mother was presently enduring.

In the nightmares I saw the grandfather known as Malcolm for what he was: An ogre who had overthrown Garland, Earl of Foxworth, and now terrorized the kingdom and its citizens. Malcolm the Ogre had imprisoned Lady Alicia and Lady Corrine in a high tower to observe the destruction reigning down on their beloved kingdom from below. Malcolm's foot came crashing down on a building that represented Grandfather Garland's business, causing people to scream and scatter in all directions. Malcolm managed to pluck many of them up as one does sunflower seeds from a bag and shove them in his mouth. Inside my head I heard the blood curdling screams of his victims as his razor-sharp teeth sliced through their flesh. Through my closed eyes I saw the horrified faces of my mother and grandmother as they witnessed the grizzly scene.

I was prepared to scream the moment my eyes flashed open and I saw red. Thinking the cottage was on fire I was all set to panic, but then my vision adjusted and the peaceful face of my brother came into view. Still fast asleep, Christopher had rolled over on his side to face me. He looked so serene, the way Daddy had whenever his sleep was particularly pleasant. How Christopher could dream of _anything_ pleasant after what I'd told him about Momma and the grandfather went well beyond my realm of thought. Then again, I wasn't the optimist of the family. We knew that Christopher had inherited his optimism from Daddy; though it was difficult to say which parent's personality Daddy resembled more strongly. Grandmother Alicia was definitely an optimist, having never voiced a single unkind word to or about anyone in her life (that I knew of, anyway). She was also highly motivated, a quality that Christopher expressed regularly. Grandfather Garland, I supposed, had been more absentminded than optimistic, but with the same laid back temperament as his wife. Eventually, I deduced that, aside from our father, my brother resembled both of our grandparents. Though I believe it was our _grandmother_ who represented his personality just a bit more sturdily than our grandfather had.

It was our first Saturday in Richmond, Virginia, and very early in the morning. Normally Carrie and Cory would be downstairs in the living room, getting their fill of the antics of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. The sort of entertainment I hadn't found appealing ever since my exodus from grammar school one year earlier. How young children could awaken at such ungodly hours in anticipation of animated violence no longer bore any relevance for me. I was much more content in spending my days off from responsibilities sleeping late or sunbathing in the backyard.

But Grandmother Alicia didn't own a television. The small income she earned as a piano teacher wasn't enough to afford such luxuries—not that I minded much. When it came to television my interest in programs was relatively limited, though I did enjoy watching televised broadcasts of ballet performances and movies. Just a few months before Daddy had died, we'd all sat down together and watched _Roger and Hammerstein's Cinderella. _For a full two hours Julie Andrews' performance as the fairytale heroin had held my attention like nothing else except ballet ever could. But beyond these few exceptions, my eyes and ears simply tuned out when it came to television. I preferred to spend the time I could be watching it either practicing my ballet, playing outdoors, or reading. There was nothing I found entertaining about watching imaginary people live the sort of life anyone could if only they switched off their television and left their house.

Christopher cared as much for television as I did, and instead spent every spare moment he had studying the medical quarterlies. (Grandmother Alicia had bought him a twelve-month subscription for his birthday last October.) The only television Christopher had ever really seemed to enjoy was _The Ed Sullivan Show, _which he'd watchedwith Daddy. But ever since the car accident, Sunday evenings at our house passed without the musings of Mr. Sullivan and his special guest stars.

I debated on whether or not to wake Christopher before going downstairs to check on the twins. Carrie and Cory were equipped with automatic alarm clocks, and were surely awake by now. I didn't feel comfortable leaving the task of fixing them breakfast to Grandmother Alicia, whose own night had exceeded mine in difficulty. I was also desperate to share with my brother the discovery I'd made about our grandmother—something I couldn't very well do with her so close in earshot. Surely he would be interested to know what she said and did when no one else was thought to be listening?

"Christopher," I said softly, and nudged his shoulder, "wake up and come downstairs with me. I've got something important to tell you."

His reply was a deep groan. When he made no further effort to answer me, I shook him again.

"Christopher Dollanganger, I _insist _you open your eyes this instant!"

This time when he responded, his eyes fluttered open. The early morning sunlight spilling through the window made his eyes shine, in a way that fortified their innate cerulean sparkle. He yawned, and brushed back the sleep-curled bangs from his eyes. "Well, yours is certainly a pleasant way to say good-morning."

"Don't be sarcastic," I snapped. "I tried waking you before, but all you did was groan and go back to sleep."

Christopher propped himself up on one elbow and spread his other arm across his hip, studying me as a doctor does their patient. His expression was one of such severe absorption it was as if he had already _become _the doctor he was striving to be. "All right, Cathy, I give. What's so important that you had to wake me up at"—he paused to consult his wristwatch—"six-twenty-three on a Saturday morning?"

"It's not something we can talk about freely here. Come down into the kitchen first, and I'll tell you there."

Christopher said not another word as we left the sewing room and padded quietly across the foyer to the stairway. On our way, I tossed the painting of Grandfather Garland a glance from over my shoulder. Not one clue remained of what I'd witnessed the previous night—not even a candle. That was when I began to wonder if what I'd seen had been nothing more than a dream. A dream created by my family's current personal struggles and my own overactive imagination.

But it _couldn't _have been a dream.

"…_I fear for Corrine, for she is so like I was after you died. She's so afraid, a young mother all alone in the world…"_

Not when the words of my grandmother played as clearly inside my head as they had when she'd first spoken them.

With no television to keep them occupied, I wasn't surprised when I looked through the parlor window and saw the twins. It was a warm July morning, and it was only going to get hotter as they day wore on. It was best that Cory and Carrie were getting their exercise now. Once the afternoon rolled around, the heat was sure to leave them feeling too lethargic to move about much. This was inopportune to say the least, since we had all been invited to the garden party of Grandmother Alicia's neighbor.

While they still could, Carrie and Cory had decided to chase each other merrily around the swing-set outside. I rapped softly on the window until I had the attention of both twins, then motioned with my finger for them to come inside.

At first, they didn't appear as though they had any intention of listening to me. They looked at each other, then whipped their blond heads over their shoulders to stare at the swings. Carrie said something to Cory, probably something in their secret language that only the two of them could understand. He replied, and then took his sister by the hand and began running with her toward the cottage.

I heard the sound of the front door swinging open and then slamming shut loudly as I made my way out of the parlor. The chattering of excited voices and the drumming of small feet across the floorboards quickly followed.

I met my brother and sister before the kitchen entryway. I raised my hands and put them on my hips in a way I'd seen our mother do on many occasions whenever displeasure was called upon. "Carrie, Cory. What have the two of you been told about slamming doors?"

The twins paused, mid stride, and wrapped their arms around each other as the realization of being scolded sunk in.

I didn't bother to wait for an answer before continuing. I knew that whatever they had to say would be an excuse on how they weren't to blame. "Grandmother Alicia is sound asleep, and your caterwauling might disturb her."

"Can we go upstairs and wake her?" Cory asked.

"It's early yet, Cory. Let's give her some time to get herself up."

"But we're bored. We want her to play with us again like she did yesterday."

"You'll have all day today to do that. And we have a party to go to later on. Caren has a little sister just around your age. You and Carrie can play with _her."_

"Cathy, I'm hungry," Carrie announced. "I want pancakes."

"Grandmother Alicia doesn't like us to use the stove when she isn't around," I explained as I led Carrie and Cory into the kitchen. "We'll have to have cereal instead."

"Can we have cold cereal?"

"Of course."

"With raisins?" added Cory.

"If that's what you want."

Christopher was sitting at the kitchen table when the three of us arrived. He had already started on his own breakfast—cornflakes with no raisins, as he didn't care for them—and greeted us with a smile.

"Nice of you to wait," I said, eyeing the bowl of cereal.

"Who do you think you are," Christopher asked. "The Queen of England? There's no rule stating that he who arrives first must wait for those who choose to be late."

I rolled my eyes in response to his arrogance. "Maybe not. But it would be the polite thing to do, don't you think? And I'll bet the grandparents at Foxworth Hall would never _dream _of eating until _everyone_ is seated together at the table."

"Well, this isn't Foxworth Hall. And we _aren't _our grandparents."

I said nothing on the subject of the grandparents that had remained a mystery to us until only recently. Even now, we knew hardly anything at all about them. I walked over to where the telephone was and picked up Grandmother Alicia's stepping stool. I carried it over to the counter and set it down. "Not _one word," _I ordered Christopher, who was smirking at me from over his spoon. "For your information, Christopher Doll, it's better for ballet dancers to be short rather than tall. A smaller stature makes agility and the ability to lift themselves up that much easier."

"So, if it turned out you were finished growing, and you stayed the same height you are now forever, it wouldn't bother you?"

"Well, maybe a little." I climbed up onto the stool and opened up the cabinet, searching until I found a box of raisins. "But I'd find ways to adjust. And five foot two isn't_ that_ short."

"It's only one inch taller than Grandmother Alicia. Who, as you well know, has been referred to as 'short' at least a few times."

I found the box of raisins and stepped down from the stool. "So what? There are _many _men who find that sort of thing charming in a woman. Grandfather Garland was one of them, or have you forgotten that?"

"Of course I haven't forgotten," Christopher defended. "Grandmother Alicia must have told us that story at least a dozen times. Anyway, what was so important that you couldn't wait to get me down here and tell me? Or are you using this discussion on height differences as a way to stall?"

"I'm not stalling!" I slid the stepping stool over to the second cabinet where Grandmother Alicia kept the chinaware. I retrieved three bowls and carried them—along with the box of raisins—over to the table.

The night before on the drive home from the Millie's Diner, we'd stopped off at the corner store and bought a bottle of cold milk. Thank God! Or else Carrie would be bawling her head off right now if she learned she'd be eating cereal with milk made from powder.

Quickly I prepared the twins' breakfast, giving Carrie extra raisins upon request. Then I made myself some cereal, putting just a few raisins on top, and sat down at the table with my siblings.

I then began to tell Christopher the story of how I'd discovered our Grandmother's peculiar behavior. At first, he gave me an odd look, as if he didn't quite believe me. But when I went into the detail of all she'd said, his eyes widened and he sat up straight in his seat.

"Christopher, do you think Momma is in serious danger?"

"I don't know." He pended the fingers of both hands together, as one tends to do while in deep thought. "Perhaps she'll call again, and we can ask her if everything is all right."

"We're supposed to go to that party at the Radcliffe's this afternoon," I reminded him. "What if Momma calls here while we're _there_ and we miss her?"

"We won't, Cathy." Christopher reached across the table and covered my hand with his, squeezing reassuringly. "Grandmother Alicia won't let that happen. I swear on my _life_ she won't."

He sounded so confident as he said this, that I saw no other choice but to believe him.


	10. Ch 9: The Maid with Golden Hair

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews. _Aura Lea _written by W. W. Fosdick, circa 1861. A lyric appearing in this song served as inspiration for the chapter title as well.

**A/N: **Upon realizing how similar the surname "Ainsworth" is to "Foxworth", I went back and replaced Ainsworth with "Aldridge". It's nowhere near as classy as Ainsworth, but at least it won't sound silly when placed beside Foxworth. ;)

* * *

It was later that same day, just a quarter past two in the afternoon. The Radcliffe's garden party was set to begin at precisely three o'clock, and I didn't particularly want to go. But Grandmother Alicia thought it would do us all a world of good to escape the house and our problems for a few hours.

And so I'd put on my yellow sundress with its sweetheart neckline and overall pattern of tiny pink flowers. The sandals I wore were white and had gold straps with buckles on the outer sides. Momma had bought me the dress and the sandals back in April when we'd gone shopping for Daddy's birthday present. They were only a handful of belongings that hadn't been sold or repossessed, and this was the first time I'd worn either of them. As an added accessory, I'd taken the red scarf my father had given me when I was nine and tied my hair up in a ponytail.

Grandmother Alicia hadn't said one word regarding her conversation with Momma or the one with Grandfather Garland's painting. Christopher warned me not to mention either, lest our grandmother sink back into the state of frailty she'd been in at our father's funeral.

"Don't worry, Cathy," Christopher assured me as he stood before the bathroom mirror, knotting his maroon tie. "I've already spoken to Grandmother Alicia. She called Momma earlier to tell her where we'll be this afternoon."

Christopher was sporting a white shirt and tan trousers with dark brown Oxfords. His hair, which he normally gave little thought to, had been parted to the side. His stylish clothing and sophisticated hairstyle gave him the appearance of someone much older. Someone who, at first glance, made me think of only one person.

Daddy.

I was seated on the lid of the toilet, using a pair of bright red, satin ribbons to fashion two ponytails for Carrie. Grandmother Alicia wanted everyone to look their best for the party, and I'd always loved ponytails on my sister. But all that mattered to Carrie was that she had something red to go with her purple sundress. She took no notice of the appealing effect her shiny black Mary Jane shoes and white socks with lace trim had on the rest of her outfit.

"Grandmother Alicia _called her?" _I demanded of Christopher."Why didn't she _tell us? _She's spoken _twice _to Momma already—and us not once!"

In my frustration I accidentally yanked on Carrie's hair while styling her second ponytail. She let out a yelp of pain and pivoted to face me.

"That hurt, Cathy! You're too rough! If you keep on being rough, then I'm not gonna let you do my hair no more!"

"I'm sorry, Carrie."

"Well, for one thing," Christopher informed me, "Grandmother Alicia called while you were getting dressed."

"Did _you _get to talk to her?"

"Can I _go _now?" Carrie asked. She was eager to join Cory, who Grandmother Alicia was tying a tie for in her bedroom.

"Yes. Just let me finish doing your hair first."

Carrie was eyeing me as if she didn't trust me. Holding tightly to the part of her hair still hanging loose, she took two steps back.

"Please, Carrie," I said. "I promise to be gentle."

Not trusting me enough to hold true to my promise, she hesitated. When at last she relented, I took great care as I spun the red ribbon around the tress of golden hair.

"No," Christopher replied in answer to my former question. "I was getting dressed, too."He backed temporarily away from the mirror, as Carrie dashed in between him and the sink. She skipped out of the bathroom, her ponytails dancing behind her.

"You don't sound very concerned," I pointed out to my brother.

"Just because I'm choosing not to express my emotions doesn't mean I'm not having them. Besides, if there was anything wrong with Momma, then Grandmother Alicia isn't the sort who would keep the truth from us."

"How can you be so certain, when both she and Momma are _already_ keeping secrets from us?"

"With good reason, I'm sure. They're probably just waiting for the right time to share them with us."

"You don't know that for certain, Christopher. Don't you remember Grandfathers Garland and Alistair? They loved Grandmother Alicia, and yet they both kept their health problems secret from her until it was too late. What if, by the time we find out what's really happening with Momma, it'll be too late to do anything about it?"

"Honestly, Cathy. Slow down and have a listen to what you're saying. You're getting yourself all worked up, when all you have to go by are endless theories and no facts. Theories that your mind has conjured up in response to a conversation you've heard only one side of. Momma will call when she can, so stop worrying. In the meantime, we have a party to get to. So if you're content to stay here and mope about while the rest of us enjoy ourselves, then do so to your heart's content. But don't expect the rest of us to share in your misery."

As accurate an example of my behavior as this was, I couldn't say I appreciated it. If there was one thing I despised, it was being analyzed—especially by someone who knew me as well as my brother did. As was so typical of me during our disagreements, I removed myself from the situation. I did so ungraciously, retaliating by slamming the bathroom door in Christopher's face. I hoped he took note of the mockery in relation to his own affable action toward me the previous night.

I had just thrown myself down on my bed and was preparing to let loose with a private temper tantrum. But before I could shed even a single tear, a knock at the door put a stop to my intentions. Thinking it was Christopher come to inflict more torture—not that criticisms _were _torture, but being only twelve, I was prone to dramatization—I shouted back angrily: _"Go away!"_

Whoever it was on the other side of the door either hadn't heard me, or had simply chosen to ignore my command. Silently I watched the brass knob turn and the door edge forward, revealing the small figure of my grandmother.

Immediately I regretted my harsh words, having had no prior warning that _she_ was the one who'd come to check on me. Grandmother Alicia was garbed in a white dress with a light green, checkered pattern that emphasized her hourglass figure. She had run a curling iron through her chestnut hair, and then fastened it into place with two white hairclips. Her black peep-toe pumps added a few inches to her height (I would later learn they made her exactly one and a half inches taller than me).

"Are you all right, Cathy? I thought I heard a door slam."

"I'm fine."

"I thought I heard you speaking to Chris as well."

Grandmother Alicia was well known for her kindness, and so there was no way she was going to let my behavior go unnoticed. Her compassion was just too strong, and one of the many traits that made her so much like my father.

As a result, I burst into tears.

"Oh, darling, darling!" Not waiting for me to grant her admission to the sewing room (not that it mattered to me at this point), Grandmother Alicia rushed forward. Within seconds she had gathered me into her arms and was slowly, gently rocking me back and forth. "There now, it's all right. You poor baby…that's it, just let go. Let it go."

My grandmother held me in a way I'd seen Momma hold Christopher many, many times before. I had never been either of my parents' favorite—Christopher had been Momma's, and all four of us had been Daddy's. But Grandmother Alicia and I shared a secret, and that was that I had always been her favorite grandchild. I looked too much like she had at my age and was too caught up in tales of fancy and love not to be the object of her biasness.

With my head resting against her flat chest, she began to thread her slim fingers through my hair. She hummed softly, and even as she comforted me was careful not to untangle the scarf clasping my hair in place. She rarely sang, claiming that her lack of a singer's voice made her uncomfortable. Its exposure occurred only on very special occasions.

This was one of those rare times.

"_When the blackbird in the Spring,_

'_Neath the willow tree,_

_Sat and rock'd, I heard him sing,_

_Singing Aura Lea._

_Aura Lea, Aura Lea,_

_Maid with golden hair;_

_Sunshine came along with thee,_

_And swallows in the air."_

Oh, the melody my grandmother produced was more beautiful than any ballet music I'd ever heard! I closed my eyes, feeling her words work their magic and alleviate the disturbances inside my heart. The reverberation and vibrations of her vocals were so soothing. It was as if the music was the blood that pumped unremittingly through my veins.

"_Aura Lea, Aura Lea,_

_Maid with golden hair;_

_Sunshine came along with thee,_

_And swallows in the air._

"_In thy blush the rose was born,_

_Music, when you spake,_

_Through thine azure eye the morn,_

_Sparkling seemed to break._

_Aura Lea, Aura Lea,_

_Birds of crimson wing,_

_Never song have sung to me,_

_As in that sweet spring."_

The more my grandmother sang, the closer my mind drifted to a state of blissful sleep. I had lost so much of it the night before, that my willingness to surrender to it now came easily. Her voice played in the back of my mind like the music box my father had given me. That music box was yet another of the treasures I'd been forced to part with, and the one possession I missed most of all.

"_Aura Lea! the bird may flee,_

_The willow's golden hair_

_Swing through winter fitfully,_

_On the stormy air._

_Yet if thy blue eyes I see,_

_Gloom will soon depart;_

_For to me, sweet Aura Lea_

_Is sunshine through the heart."_

In my twilight sleep I saw myself dancing the lead role in _Snow White, _as I had during my ballet class's production back in March. Seated in the front row of the audience I spotted my family, whose eyes twinkled with admiration and fascination at my performance.

"_When the mistletoe was green,_

_Midst the winter's snows,_

_Sunshine in thy face was seen,_

_Kissing lips of rose._

_Aura Lea, Aura Lea,_

_Take my golden ring;_

_Love and light return with thee,_

_And swallows with the spring."_

I saw Daddy, who had come to my dressing room following the performance. His arms were overflowing with two-dozen pink roses (my favorite) and I could smell his cologne. "For my favorite ballerina," he said as he presented me with the roses

He kissed me on the cheek, and only then did I open my eyes.

Fresh tears speckled my cheeks as Grandmother Alicia's tender touch shook me wider awake. She gave me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks—just as Daddy had done each time I'd finished crying in his arms. My love for my grandmother was on the same par as my grief over my father's death. Although he was no longer with us, I felt God had blessed my siblings and me with someone who loved us the same way he had. The way I knew he still did, and always would.

Grandmother Alicia plucked from her handbag a small bag of Kleenex (she was well aware of Cory's invariable hay fever and thought to take along the necessities). Taking a few sheets, she dried my tears and then handed me the Kleenex so I could blow my nose.

"I was an only child," she began. "And so I can't honestly say I can relate to the complexities of having a sibling. But I _can _identify with the feeling of dealing with someone who's older. What was it Chris said that upset you so much?"

I shrugged, knowing I couldn't tell her the whole truth of what he and I had talked about. Therefore, I revealed all that I could without risking the exposure of what I'd discovered. "He just thought my concerns for Momma were an overreaction."

"Did he mention that I spoke to her while all of you were upstairs?"

I nodded.

Taking her hands in mine, Grandmother Alicia pressed them to her chest and smiled. "Your mother isn't in any danger, Cathy. That long trip she made from Richmond to Charlottesville just took a lot out of her. She was tired the other night when she called, that's all. But I gave her the Radcliffe's phone number, and she promises to call us while we're there this afternoon. When I spoke to her, all she could talk of was how much she misses you four precious darlings."

Just as she had managed to earlier, Grandmother Alicia's words put a stop to my anxieties. I felt the tension inside me ease, and I smiled for what I'm sure was the first time all day. She put her arm around me and we headed for the door.

No sooner were we standing outside the sewing room then did Cory come bounding up the stairway. He ran toward us, his blond curls bouncing like springs around his head. Between the four of us, it was Cory who was most excited about the party. He was sure to lapse into silence when confronted by so many unfamiliar faces, but he was looking forward to eating a barbecued hotdog. Hotdogs were his favorite food, although he only ate those which were prepared on a grill. No boiled hotdogs for Cory. Trying to get him to eat one was akin to trying to get a cat to eat fish food. It was simply an unfeasible attempt.

"Cathy! Granma! Do I look handsome?"

Indeed, Cory looked as though he was preparing for a photo shoot in a fashion magazine. He was dressed smartly in a pale blue dress shirt and little green tie. His shorts were light gray and the shoes he wore were dark brown Oxfords like Christopher's. Cory was grinning from ear to ear, eagerly anticipating the reactions of Grandmother Alicia and myself.

"Yes, Cory," I gushed. "You look _very handsome!"_

"Oh, yes!" added our grandmother, her manner one of equal enthusiasm. "You look just like a little prince."

"Do princes eat hotdogs?"

"Of course they do, sweetheart."

"What about…a _million_ hotdogs?"

She giggled. "I don't think there are that many hotdogs alone in the state of Virginia. Will His Royal Highness settle for two instead?"

Cory threw his arms up in the air with the ardency of a child on Christmas morning. "Yes!"

"Where are Carrie and Christopher?" I asked my small brother.

"Swinging."

Thinking Cory meant the swing-set, the three of us started down the stairway. We crossed the foyer and departed through the front door, prepared to turn right and head into the back yard. We had barely gotten past the doorway when we were met by Christopher and Carrie, who were sitting together on the porch swing.

"Don't like this swing, Christopher," Carrie was saying. "Wanna go on the one with the slide."

"No," he replied with the same resolve as Daddy each time one or both twins had made an impossible request. "We'll be leaving soon, and you can't afford to dirty up your dress. You don't want to be the only filthy person at the party, do you?"

I was expecting Carrie to retort with one of her most famous phrases—"I don't care"—but the opportunity never presented itself. For Christopher took that moment to raise his hand in greeting to the rest of us. Carrie was seated on the area of the bench that was furthest from the door and closest to the porch railing. Christopher was beside her, his much larger frame blocking her out like a cloud does the sun. The only clue other than her voice that indicated Carrie was nearby was her legs, which dangled off the edge of the swing.

Then, quick as lightning, she leapt off the swing. The soles of her Mary Janes clicked loudly against the wooden planks of the porch. She ran straight to Cory and embraced him, forcing a high-pitched laugh from him.

Meanwhile I avoided Christopher's eyes like the plague, concentrating on a nearly nonexistent scuff on the strap of my sandal. I was still angry with him over the way he'd spoken to me earlier inside the bathroom. I wasn't ready to forgive him just yet…even if his words had been as insignificant as the mark upon my sandal.


	11. Ch 10: The Garden Party

The Radcliffe's estate had been decorated to resemble a Hawaiian fête. Bedecking the small white trellis between the white, wraparound picket fence were roses of red, orange and yellow. A cable of tikki lamps with imitation flames of paper mâché paraded along the freshly cut grass. Japanese lanterns of orange and yellow lined the branches of the tall trees that surrounded the yard. A long table swathed over in an orange tablecloth stood in the center of the yard. It was adorned with a buffet of foods both hot and cold—including a platter piled high with hotdogs and another with hamburgers.

The house itself was two floors, with an attic situated all the way to the left. There were seven large windows in total that I could see, all with black shutters. The porch was very small and left no room for a swing, let alone a chair. Located on either side of the red door was a row of six tiny windows. A beautiful rose garden combining every color blossom imaginable had been planted beneath the first window on the right.

Most of the guests stood around in groups of two or more, either by the table or near or on the porch. Everyone was smartly dressed and really seemed to be enjoying themselves. A slim woman in a bright green dress and ankle-length black skirt was heavily involved in a conversation with a group of other females. As I drew closer with my siblings and grandmother, one of the women mentioned the rose garden I'd just seen.

"Oh, Vera, I'm so jealous! While you can afford to plant your own roses, I have to rely on my husband to buy them for me from the florist. And the only time he does _that _is after we've had an argument and he feels guilty."

The woman named Vera smiled stoically. "I get them from a friend of mine in Clairmont—his own gardens are _full _of roses! Each time he visits, he brings me enough to fill not only my front garden, but the one in back."

"How much does he charge?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing!"

"He doesn't believe in mixing business with friendship."

"You _must _give me his phone number," begged another woman. "I'm perfectly willing to pay any price for such beautiful roses."

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Vera suggested.

Vera was of average height—about five foot six—and looked to be somewhere in her mid thirties. She had familiar, bushy hair the color of dark chocolate cut just above her neckline and deep, brown eyes. She looked over the shoulder of the first woman who'd spoken and waved vigorously in our direction.

"Alicia, there you are! I was starting to worry you might not come."

Grandmother Alicia returned the greeting as the five of us strode toward the group. The ages of the women ranged from perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight to well over sixty. The woman who had asked about the roses was easily one of the youngest, with her fresh face and glossy red hair.

"We had a bit of a crisis back at the cottage," my grandmother explained. She winked at me to let me know she had no intention of revealing the truth behind our tardiness.

"Oh?" Vera sounded concerned. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is just fine. Vera, I'd like you to meet my four lovely grandchildren." Grandmother Alicia went on to present each of us to her friends. Next, she told the same story she had told Millie at the diner the night before. Though we didn't comment, Christopher and I shared a look. No one noticed this, and afterward our grandmother introduced the woman as Vera Radcliffe, Caren's mother.

"You met Vera once or twice when you visited with your parents," Grandmother Alicia explained. "She's originally from Mount Vernon, Georgia."

"I moved to Richmond shortly before Caren was born," Vera supplemented. "The three of you often played together when you were little." She smiled cordially. "Every time she saw a cab pull up in front of Alicia's, she would run to the window, hoping to see you. It's been seven years since you last saw each other, which is why she didn't recognize you the other day. But when I told her who you were, her face lit up like the heavens on the Fourth of July."

"Where _are _Caren and Isabel?" Grandmother Alicia asked.

"They're both out back by the pool. Paul just arrived, and you know how Caren gets whenever _he's_ around. When I left them, she was getting ready to show him what she learned this morning in swim class."

"Cathy, why don't you and Chris take the twins and head into the backyard? I'll be along in a few minutes."

Christopher took Cory by his hand and I took Carrie by hers, and the four of us circled the house. The rear contained a second rose garden, which was every bit as colorful and magnificent as the one in front. It was located to the right of a sliding glass door, which opened up onto a cement patio. The iron mesh furniture had a black finish and a detailed flower pattern carved around the crevices.

Seated in a chair was a man as big as a grizzly bear, but with an externally gentle nature that I sensed immediately. He wore a white tennis shirt on which the first few buttons had been left open to reveal his dark chest hair. His trousers were a deep caramel, and the cuffs rode up to reveal slim ankles beneath white socks. His long legs were stretched out before him, his right heel balanced on the concrete and his right ankle chained around its partner. He had very wide, broad shoulders, and black hair that complemented his bronze complexion.

At the man's feet sat a small girl who was, presumably, the same age as Carrie and Cory. The girl had on a white swimsuit with dark blue stripes and was busying herself with a Tiny Tears doll. Her hair was the same texture as Caren's, except it was of a slightly lighter brown. The sunlight shining down on it was like spatters of yellow paint, as it turned the brown strands to gold.

The man failed to notice us, however, as his attention was closely focused on the large pool at the edge of the patio. The pool was equipped with a diving board on one end, while on the opposing side was a set of small stairs. The sun beat down heavily onto the clear water, causing the blue tile on the bottom to take on the tint of a small ocean.

On the diving board stood Caren, sporting a red playsuit with white polka-dots. Her dark hair was tightly secured beneath a yellow bathing cap with a white flower on the side. She appeared incredibly confident as she flexed her arms, preparing what must have been an intricate dive. Once she'd finished warming up she lunged forward and threw herself off the board, hitting the water like an Olympic diver.

Seconds later she resurfaced, waiting a moment for the air to reenter her lungs before speaking. "Uncle Paul, did you see me? I did good that time, didn't I?"

"Yes, Caren," answered the man in the chair. "You did marvelously!"

He spoke these words to Caren with the same enthusiasm Daddy had expressed to me at each one of my ballet recitals. The man named Paul had a voice like a canon, but friendly, and when he laughed it made me want to laugh, too.

"Better than last time?" Caren asked hopefully.

"Yes, sweetheart. If you keep practicing, then you're sure to make it to the Olympics."

"Uncle Paul! You _know _I plan to become a professional musician. I won't have _time_ for swimming when I'm practicing the clarinet."

"Well, who's to say you can't do both?" Paul laughed again, and then pivoted in his chair. As he did, his eyes fell upon my siblings and me. He smiled. "Oh! And who might _you _four be?"

Christopher took it upon himself to introduce us. Normally I would have reminded him that I was perfectly capable of telling this nice man my name on my own. But I was still so upset with my brother for earlier that I permitted him to do the talking.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Paul said, after Christopher had completed our introductions. "I am Dr. Paul Scott Sheffield, and the young lady beside me is Isabel Radcliffe." He gestured to the small girl at his feet, and she put down her doll to stare up at us curiously. "And that expert diver over there is Isabel's older sister, Caren. Are you children friends of the Radcliffe's?"

"Not exactly," I told him. "But our grandmother is. Perhaps you know her? Alicia Aldridge?"

A wide grin spread across Dr. Sheffield's handsome face at the mention of my grandmother's name. "Ah, yes. I'm well acquainted with Alicia—such a kind, lovely woman. This is my first trip to Virginia since I heard of your father's death. I was in Maryland attending a medical convention when I received the news. How _is_ Alicia? And how are you children faring?"

"We're as well as can be expected, considering the circumstances," Christopher replied, but not without sending me a look to indicate I was to keep quiet about what I'd witnessed the previous night. Oh, the very _nerve_ of him! As if I'd ever divulge such a private matter to a complete stranger!

"You have my condolences," Dr. Sheffield concluded. "I knew your grandfather, too, a little. The medical profession suffered a devastating loss when he died."

"How did you meet our grandparents?" asked Christopher.

I never missed the way Dr. Sheffield's eyes darted from the house to the pool before settling on the ground. Oh, good golly! Was _everyone _intent on keeping secrets from us, even strangers?

But my mind didn't inhabit this matter for long, which Caren saw to even though she didn't know it. She climbed out of the pool and sauntered over to us, leaving a extensive trail of water behind her.

"Hi," she greeted. "I see you've all met my uncle and little sister."

"Yes," Christopher said. "He was just telling us of his acquaintanceship with our grandfather."

"I wouldn't exactly call it an acquaintanceship," Dr. Sheffield said modestly. "I was still a boy when I heard Dr. Alistair Aldridge speak at a conference at my father's alma mater. Both your grandfather and my father were small-town physicians, just as I am now. Although I was only eleven at the time, I was very taken by your grandfather's exuberance for the medical profession. Never did I forget my encounter with him, or the effect he had on me.

"Several years later, I was sorry to learn he had died. I was in my first year of college then, and one day when I had no classes, took the bus from Clairmont, South Caroline to Richmond, Virginia. It was there, standing before your grandfather's grave, when I first met your grandmother. I knew Dr. Aldridge was married, and that he had a stepson son my age. He had been dead six years, but your grandmother's emotional state suggested otherwise.

"I soon learned that she had been recently diagnosed with breast cancer and undergone surgery to stop it. At around that same time, she had sent her son—your father—to live with relatives, as she could not afford to send him to medical school. I was pleased to see your grandfather had inspired his stepson the same way he and my father had inspired me. But I was _sad_ for your grandmother. She was lonely, and I suppose I reminded her a little of your father, for she invited me back to her cottage for coffee. Having recently left home for college, I was lonely too, which is why I so eagerly accepted her invitation.

"Eventually, I came to think of your grandmother as a second mother to me. 'My mother away from home', I often called her. She enjoyed hearing about the way her husband had played a part in motivating me to want to become a doctor. And _I_ enjoyed hearing more about what he had been like as a physician, as well as a family man. Listening to her stories was like being a child again; for they never failed to entertain and leave me craving more. I visited her as often as I could, and a few times she even came to my college to see me. On holidays I would invite her back to Clairmont, to spend time with me and my family. Everyone was charmed by her and looked forward to her visits, as well as her stories."

Grandmother Alicia never seemed to want to talk about the part of her life Dr. Sheffield had spoken of in such thorough detail. Though I wasn't brave enough to come to her with any questions pertaining to it, I admit I was always curious.

"Speaking of your grandmother," Dr. Sheffield asked, "where is she? It's been ages since I've been to Richmond. I'd like very much to see her before I drive back to South Carolina this evening."

"She expressed an interest in speaking with you as well," Christopher said. "The last time we saw her, she was with Mrs. Radcliffe and some of her friends. She said she'd be along momentarily, though."

"Then I suppose I'll just wait for her here."

"I'm starving," Caren announced. "Cathy, will you come with me to get a hotdog?"

"Sure."

"I want a hotdog!" Cory begged.

"Me, too!" chimed in Carrie.

"Don't worry," Christopher assured them. "Cathy will get us _all _hotdogs."

I scowled at him. Did he really think me the type of girl who would willingly wait on him like a maid? Placing my hands on my hips, I spun to face him. _"Look _at me, Christopher Doll. Am I wearingan apron? Do you see a feather duster in my hand? No. Which means that if you want something, then you'll have to get it for yourself."

"Can me and Cory still have hotdogs?" Carrie asked, as I began to stroll back toward the front of the house with Caren.

I called back over my shoulder to the twins: "Yes. I'll bring you each a hotdog."

"What about me?" Christopher asked.

I ignored this, choosing instead to simultaneously flip my ponytail and my tongue back in his direction. Caren and I rounded the corner, and I smiled to myself. _That_ would teach Christopher to boss me around!

We strode past groups of adults while avoiding clusters of small children. The younger guests found it acceptable to treat the Radcliffe's front yard as one would the grounds of a carnival.

"_Bang-bang!_ You're dead!"

A boy around seven years old in a cowboy hat wielding a water pistol nailed me unexpectedly in the chest with his plastic toy.

"Bobby Bullard, stop being such a germ and go terrorize someone else!" Caren snapped. The little boy was so startled that he pivoted and rushed off. Caren snatched up a few napkins from the buffet table, and helped me soak up the stain the water had left on my dress. "I'm so sorry about that. Out of all the kids in this neighborhood I've ever sat for, Bobby is the _worst."_

"You babysit?" I asked.

"Since I was nine."

Good golly-day! My parents hadn't even let me stay home alone until after I'd turned twelve. "And your parents don't mind?"

Caren shrugged. "Well, I've got a younger sister." She pressed the napkins firmly against the stain, soaking up the remainder of water as best she could. "Just be thankful he didn't use any ketchup or mustard. At the last party my mother hosted, he mixed the two together and used Mrs. Elliot's rear as a bull's-eye. Her reaction was as unsightly as the stain on her white dress."

We both grabbed a pair of paper plates and five hotdogs each—one for ourselves, one for Cory and Carrie, and another for Dr. Sheffield. Rather than return to the pool immediately, we decided to wander about the yard for a bit. As we walked, I asked Caren a question that had been on my mind from almost the moment I'd seen her dive into the pool.

"So, whose side of your family is your uncle on?"

"No one's," she replied, her mouth full of hotdog. "He's a close friend of my mother's and of mine, and so I've always just called him 'Uncle Paul'."

"Did he and your mother know each other as children, like my grandmother and her second husband did?"

Caren shook her head, and swallowed before answering this time. "Uncle Paul is the doctor who helped deliver me. My mother had just moved to Richmond, Virginia, from Mount Vernon, Georgia. She was pregnant at the time, and unmarried—and you _know_ how bigoted people can be about things like that. So, while everyone else was gossiping about her behind her back, your grandmother was welcoming her to the neighborhood. At first, my mother didn't know _what _to think. Never had she met anyone so nice, and thought your grandmother only felt sorry for her. But she kept coming around, bringing my mother what she needed and helping in every way she could. And, soon enough, my mother realized just how sincere she was. To this day she insists she doesn't know where either of us would be if it weren't for your grandmother."

"Caren Radcliffe! Just what in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Together we spun to see a tall, lanky man with thin, dark hair and small, bird-like eyes. He was sorely underdressed for the occasion, wearing nothing but a short-sleeved undershirt and cream-colored trousers. He wore no shoes, and his hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"Who's that?" I whispered to Caren.

Caren's eyes narrowed. "My stepfather."

"Well?" he thundered. "Are you just going to stand there, gaping like a fish out of water? Answer me!"

"How am I supposed to do that," Caren flared back, "when I don't even know what it is you're yelling about?"

Her courage was something that I greatly admired, but that also raised my concerns. Here she was, a girl of twelve, defying someone who was not only an authority figure, but her parent. I couldn't imagine how my parents would have responded had I ever dared to speak to them the way Caren had just spoken to her stepfather. Still, neither Momma nor Daddy had ever spoken to us in a way Mr. Radcliffe was currently speaking to Caren.

"Don't you _dare _take that tone with me, young lady," Mr. Radcliffe continued to bellow, and I think every person turned to stare at us—or, rather, _him_—at that moment. "Now, you march yourself into the house and put on something decent! I won't have you parading around in public like some little harlot and embarrassing me!"

I threw Mr. Radcliffe an icy glare. Caren dropped the plate of hotdogs she had been holding on the ground and raced back toward the house. As she dashed by her stepfather, I was shocked by how he slapped her—hard—on the rear. Oh, how I hated him! I'd never met him, but already my dislike for him had begun to burn like the fires of hell.

People were still staring when the front door slammed behind Caren. But it wasn't until Mr. Radcliffe followed her lead and headed back inside when the hushed whisper that had commenced with a ruthless strike was broken.

"That poor child…being forced to grow up with a man like that for a father."

"All she did was wear her swimsuit out of the pool. Is that really any reason to inflict such a punishment?"

"Even his own _wife_ talks about what a monster he is."

"She's threatened to leave—and really, who can blame her? Those two little girls aren't safe with the likes of Wallace Radcliffe around."

I had been raised in a warm, loving home, free of malice and enmity. Although my parents had spanked all of us on occasion, never was it done as an excuse to be cruel, but instead to teach us a lesson. The pain we suffered was minor, and was gone the moment Momma or Daddy said they loved us and we told them we'd learned our lesson. He hadn't spoken to me, but Mr. Radcliffe's tactless words were like a cobra's venom, leaving me paralyzed with fear. All I could do was stand there and listen, as the voices of spectators contemplated the scene that had arisen so unexpectedly.

Eventually the happy mood returned, the disturbing scene now a thing of the past. Guests carried on with whatever it was they'd been doing or discussing prior to the incident. I knew I should be getting back to my siblings and Dr. Sheffield, all of whom had to be wondering what was keeping Caren and me. Grandmother Alicia was undoubtedly with them, as I hadn't come across her once during my stroll through the yard. Perhaps I should even seek out Mrs. Radcliffe and inform her of the situation with her daughter and husband.

But I didn't follow either of these preliminary choices. Instead, I acted selfishly, and left the party I had so been enjoying up until that point. I didn't care who might have spied me or what they would presume was causing me to run as I dashed madly toward the trellis.

I didn't stop running until I found myself standing before the front porch of my grandmother's cottage. Slowly I ascended the steps and flopped down in the swing, letting my arms dangle over the armrest as I buried my face in them. It was only then that I allowed my tears to take full control, ignoring the way the quaking sobs made me feel years younger than I was.

In those ten minutes I spent with my face hidden from the world, I cried for myself as well as for Caren. It was difficult not to dismiss the incident of a man disciplining his child when everyone else appeared to know the full extent of the situation. In those days, it wasn't uncommon for people to look the other way in cases like this. But that didn't make it right. It wasn't _right_ that Caren—who I liked loads despite her use of the word 'Yankee', which she hadn't spoken once all day—suffer at the hands of a stepfather who was both verbally and physically abusive. Her mother had to have known, for one of the guests had mentioned that she'd considered leaving her husband.

A large yet gentle hand suddenly closed around my shoulder, startling me out of my current thoughts. I sniffled, and raised my head to see Dr. Sheffield gazing down at me with the most concerned expression on his face.

I blushed—I couldn't help it. He was so handsome, and his warm smile sent chills up my spine. He didn't wait to be invited to sit down, and did so beside me on the swing. It creaked slightly beneath his weight, which made me realize I hadn't even heard him come up the steps.

"When you and Caren didn't return," he began, "I decided to come looking for you myself. One of your grandmother's friends said she saw you dash back over here."

"Did she tell you what else happened?" I asked.

"Yes." Dr. Sheffield sighed. Although he didn't appear to be on the verge of tears, his grave face immediately betrayed his feelings. "But you needn't worry, Cathy. Vera is back at the house, speaking to Caren. She's upset, but she'll recover, and I'm sure you'll see her before the party ends." He paused, and jerked his head back in the direction of the Radcliffe's house. "That is, if you decide to return."

"Is _Mr._ Radcliffe going to be there?"

"He isn't one for social gatherings. Not because he suffers from a fear of socializing, but because he doesn't generally get along with people. Each time his wife hosts one of her gatherings, he stays inside with the shades down and the television turned up loud."

"If he doesn't like people, then what was he doing at the party?"

"My guess is he became curious and decided to see what was happening outside. I suppose that's when he spotted Caren and found it necessary to make his feelings regarding her attire known."

"Well, he didn't have to get so frosted about it."

Dr. Sheffield smiled. The way he smiled seemed to attribute more toward offering me comfort than an opinion on my colloquial speech. "I agree," he said. "Oh, I've made the effort to confront him several times over his harsh treatment of such a lovely family. Especially when I've arrived to find Vera in tears because of something her husband said or did to one of the girls, or to her. I've told her before to leave him—and that she and her daughters are welcome to stay with me in Clairmont for as long as they'd like. But Vera refuses, saying it's out of the question, and that she's fearful of the impression others will receive. She's also a dedicated Catholic, a religion that frowns upon divorce. Although she _does_ send Caren to stay with me on occasion, just so she can experience what it's like to live in a stable environment."

"Will she be going back with you tonight?"

"It all depends on what her mother says. But if I know Caren—and I've known her since the day she was born—she won't have any objections."

"Dr. Sheffield?" I asked. "When you were at the Radcliffe's, did anyone call and ask to speak to someone in my family?"

Dr. Sheffield looked thoughtful, then shook his head. "No, I don't believe so. Why? Are you expecting a phone call?"

"My mother is supposed to call." As I explained the situation, I followed the same fabricated story Grandmother Alicia had. It was a believable tale, mixed with bits and pieces of the truth.

Dr. Sheffield commented on the sensibility and altruism of Momma's decision to leave us in the care of someone like our grandmother. "Well," he concluded, and stood up. "If you're expecting that phone call, then we'd best be returning to the party."

"What about Mr. Radcliffe?" I must have sounded frightened, for Dr. Sheffield held out his hand to me. "Will _he _be there?"

"If he's anywhere, then it will be in the living room staring at the television. When you enter through the front door, then you automatically find yourself inside the kitchen. The telephone is there, so you'll have no reason to worry about Mr. Radcliffe."

Once Dr. Sheffield had reassured me, I accepted his hand and together we descended the porch. Having him lead me along reminded me of all the special times I'd spent alone with Daddy. In spite of the fact that Dr. Sheffield looked nothing _like_ my father, there were little instances that connected the two of them together. Both averaged to be about the same age, and had broad shoulders and gentle personas.

There was no question as to why my grandmother had adopted Dr. Paul Scott Sheffield as her second son. For he was so much like the man Daddy had been.


	12. Ch 11: Acts of Heroism

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

**A/N: **The story of Vera Radcliffe and 'Oliver Fletcher' was inspired by an idea suggested by a friend of mine. The description of the Radcliffe's bedroom was based on an image found through Google.

**

* * *

**A vacant front yard devoid of chattering and laughter greeted Dr. Sheffield and me upon our return to the Radcliffe's home. Though there was little proof that anything terrible had ensued during our absence, I was seized by a terrible apparition. In the time since my father's death, I had grown accustomed to experiencing such sinister feelings of dread. Momma had said it was my grief talking, while Christopher insisted it was a product of my overactive imagination. Most of the time, their speculations had proven correct. But I was not so quick to shelve such matters, as if they were books I'd read a hundred times. I was more interested in finding out the truth—and I would do whatever it took to unveil it.

I listened closely to the rustle of leaves as I watched the Japanese lanterns dance in the wind like overgrown fireflies. "Where _is _everyone?"

"It's difficult to say," replied Dr. Sheffield, whose grip on my hand had tightened since we'd stepped onto the lawn. He fixed his eyes heavenward. "Those clouds do look a bit threatening…perhaps Mrs. Radcliffe has moved the party indoors."

I took note of the food still sitting on the table. This included a half eaten hotdog and hamburger, which had been bitten into all but once. I would have liked to believe that a transfer to another location was all it was, yet I knew there was more to it than that. The three hotdogs Caren had dropped earlier remained on the ground. I let go of Dr. Sheffield's hand to move forward and pick them up. I was in a half crouch when my ears perked to the sound of a woman's cries. They appeared to be coming from somewhere behind the house.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Hear what?" Dr. Sheffield strolled over to where I was standing and listened. The cries reverberated, and I looked at him to see if he, too, had heard them.

Our eyes didn't meet, but considering his inflexible gaze forward, I knew he'd heard what I had. "Wait here." Before I could say a word, he bounded across the yard. His legs were so long that he made it to the other side in just four strides. I waited until he'd rounded the corner of the house, hesitated for a moment, and then hurried after him.

I should have prepared myself for the scene I found waiting for me behind the house. Everything had happened so quickly, and besides, I was prone to acts of impulsiveness. Nevertheless, I did not expect to stumble upon what I did when I'd decided to follow Dr. Sheffield.

A crowd that consisted of every guest at the party had assembled together around the pool. They were wedged so closely together that it was impossible to see what had everyone so excited. I began to push my way through the throng of people, and in doing so overheard a conversation I swore made my heart stop.

"I'm not sure exactly _how_ it happened. From what I was told, she was sitting there one moment and the next had fallen into the water."

"Wasn't someone watching her? Honestly! Who leaves three young children alone by a pool unsupervised?"

"That doctor friend of Vera's was keeping an eye on them earlier. Then he had to leave. He asked Alicia Aldridge's eldest grandson—who's still only a child himself—to take his place. I guess it wasn't long until he grew tired of the responsibility and wandered off."

Oh, no! What had I done? Why had I chosen to leave the Radcliffe's at the worst possible moment? If I hadn't, then Dr. Sheffield wouldn't have come after me, and a child would not have fallen into the pool! _Oh, God! Oh, God! _I thought, as tears began to fill my eyes. _Please don't let it be Carrie or Cory! _My mother and grandmother would never forgive me—and no doubt Christopher wouldn't, either. And how would _I _be able to live the rest of my life, knowing I'd caused the death of one of my siblings? All the same, I had no qualms that everyone here was going to hate me in a moment. I was already beginning to hate myself for putting the life of a child in danger (or possibly causing their death), because I'd decided to act selfishly.

With guilt and distress now an even balance on my shoulders, I shoved the rest of my way forcibly through the crowd. That was when I saw Dr. Sheffield, who was knelt on the concrete over the body of a child who was neither Cory nor Carrie. It was Isabel Radcliffe, and the good doctor was doing his damndest to restore life to her unnaturally still body.

That was when I lost what little control I had left. Seeing what I was reminded me of what the paramedics must have seen after pulling Daddy from the car following his accident. Not wanting to distract Dr. Sheffield from what he was trying to do, nor having any desire to make a scene, I threw my hands over my mouth. Still, it did nothing to reduce the pitch of my sobs. I was preparing to flee when a pair of arms closed tightly around me from behind.

I looked up to see Grandmother Alicia, whose own eyes were focused on the current scene, along with those of the crowd. Together we watched Dr. Sheffield press down on the small chest of a little girl not yet six years old, before pressing his mouth to hers. It was on the tip of my tongue to say how sorry I was for being the cause of so much trouble. But the words wouldn't come. And besides, my grandmother wasn't the one I should be apologizing to. I glanced around for the first sign of Caren or her mother, and at last spotted them over to the left of the pool. I saw that Caren had met her stepfather's demands by changing into a white blouse and pink Pedal Pushers. Mrs. Radcliffe had her arms wrapped tightly around her daughter, who was sobbing into her mother's shoulder. Seeing Caren's reaction only served to build up my guilt, and I looked away quickly. There wasn't any place else left for my eyes to go, other than to the current object of everyone else's interest. But I couldn't bear to look, and so I let my eyes fall to my feet instead.

A noise that sounded like a choke suddenly sprang from the center of the crowd. My head snapped up to see little Isabel Radcliffe beginning to stir. Though my guilt remained, a burst of relief erupted like a volcano inside me. My grandmother's arms tightened around my chest, a sure sign that everything was going to be all right.

Dr. Sheffield remained where he was until Isabel was able to sit up on her own. Then he stood back as her mother rushed forward and swept her youngest child into her arms. With tears in her eyes she thanked Dr. Sheffield over and over, even kissing him on the cheeks to further express her gratitude.

I assumed that he was, like everyone else, merely affected by the situation, and that it was the reason why he didn't speak at first. But then, he turned toward the crowd and called, "Chris!"

Christopher, who was soaking wet for some reason, stepped forward. He permitted Dr. Sheffield to rest his large hand on his shoulder—something that he had only ever allowed our father to do.

"It is this young man you should be thanking," Dr. Sheffield explained to Mrs. Radcliffe. "Were it not for his heroic efforts, then Isabel would probably still be in danger."

I twisted my head to stare in perplexity at my grandmother. "What does he mean, 'heroic efforts'? What did Christopher do?"

"He pulled Isabel from the pool after she fell in. Before that, he'd gone in search of me. He left her and your siblings with Missy Higgins, whom he thought to be a responsible seventeen-year-old. She claims to have turned away for only a few minutes. But when I returned with Chris, we discovered Isabel floating face-down in the center of the pool. (We later found out that Missy had gone into the house to call her boyfriend.) Chris jumped into the pool and dragged Isabel out, then set to work reviving her. There isn't a doubt in my mind he would have succeeded. But Paul returned soon after and insisted he take over. It's very…" Grandmother Alicia paused. I wasn't sure if it was to gather the correct words, or because there was yet another secret she didn't want me to know about. _"…Difficult _for him,seeing children in such dire situations."

When again I turned to look, I saw that Dr. Sheffield had vanished. Christopher was attempting to hold a conversation with Mrs. Radcliffe, while Caren insisted upon wrapping her arms around him. Despite everything I had to laugh, knowing just how impassive my brother was when it came to girls. I half expected him to knock Caren into the pool when she planted a kiss on his cheek. Instead, he simply chose to ignore her. Apparently, he was too involved in his conversation with an adult to pay attention to anyone or anything else.

Grandmother Alicia and I watched the various guests approach Christopher and the Radcliffes. We listened as my brother was congratulated, while Caren and Mrs. Radcliffe were comforted. Isabel did not appear to be very affected by her experience, and smiled as she, too, was consoled.

Eventually the crowd began to fritter away, as people said their goodbyes to Mrs. Radcliffe and to one another. The guests thanked her for 'another lovely party', despite the circumstances that had brought it to a premature end.

"Where are Carrie and Cory?" I asked my grandmother.

"Natalie Pieper," she said, "took them around front to get a hotdog. She's the redheaded girl who was speaking to Vera when we first arrived."

We waited another moment or two before Mrs. Radcliffe was no longer so distracted, and then made our across the patio. Caren was holding to Christopher as if he was a mountain she might slide off of if she let go too soon. Even so, she stepped away when she saw my grandmother and me approach, smiling shyly.

While Grandmother Alicia spoke to Mrs. Radcliffe, Caren tugged me aside and demanded I join her inside the house.

"And do what?" I asked.

"Talk—my stepfather left to watch the game at the home of his co-worker earlier. So we'll have privacy until all of the guests have left."

"Okay. I just have to ask my grandmother first so she won't wonder where I am."

Christopher was standing beside Grandmother Alicia. His expression was anything _but _proud; if anything, he seemed rather humbled by the experience in which he'd played such a significant role. His clothing, which he had chosen so carefully, was now sodden and wrinkled. His hair, which he had taken so much time on, was now a tangled, sun-dried mass atop his head. Like our grandmother's absent breasts, Christopher's clothing and hair were his own badges of courage—as temporary as they may have been.

The anger I had felt toward him that afternoon had completely melted away like snow after a hard winter. My admiration for him and for what he had done was every bit as fierce as my anger had been. We seemed to have changed in the brief time we'd spent apart, for we had seen things neither one of us was accustomed to. Death was still a recent affair in our lives, and Christopher had come close to witnessing it yet again. Violence was something I had never observed before, except on television. As a result, the incident with Caren and her stepfather had shocked me like nothing ever had.

"Caren," said Mrs. Radcliffe, the echo of her voice drawing me out of my current thoughts. "Why don't you take Christopher inside and let him choose something from your father's closet to wear home?"

"Oh, that's all right," Christopher declined. "I can just run home and change."

"Nonsense—it's the _least_ I can do to repay you for what you've done for my daughter."

"Is it all right if Cathy comes, too?" Caren asked. "I want to show her my room."

"As long as it's all right with her grandmother."

Grandmother Alicia's response to this was a benevolent smile. "I certainly won't object."

Now that we had received the adults' permission, Caren took matters into her own hands. She seized me by the arm and led me across the patio to the door, while Christopher trailed leisurely behind. Caren let go of me to slide open the glass door and then led the way inside.

Just as Dr. Sheffield had promised, we walked straight into the kitchen. "Would either of you like something to eat before we head upstairs?" Caren asked.

I shook my head, while Christopher verbally refused. Caren snatched an apple from a bowl of fruit sitting on the countertop and took a big bite before instructing us to follow her.

"Try not to get any water on the floor," she warned Christopher, as we cut through a small dining area. "My cousin did that once while he was visiting last summer. My stepfather slipped on the puddle and threw out his back. He was out of work for three _months _after that."

"I thought you said your stepfather wasn't going to be home until later," I said.

"He is—I mean he won't be. I just remember the way it was when he hurt his back. All he did was lie in bed, moaning and groaning and carrying on as though he were _dying. _I swear to you both I'm not exaggerating. Even my _sister _doesn't behave the way he does when she's sick—and she's _five._"

Christopher and I exchanged looks of uncertainty. Despite seeing Mr. Radcliffe rattle his cage, I still found it amazing that any adult could exhibit such childish behavior.

We strode down a long, narrow hallway and stepped out into the living room. To the left was a stairway that led to three upstairs bedrooms and a bathroom. As we mounted the stairs, Caren described to Christopher and me the photographs hanging on the walls. However, she failed to mention the presence of her biological father in any of them. Naturally this piqued my curiosity, and so I felt the urge to instantly inquire about him.

"My father was someone my mother met in Switzerland the summer she graduated college," Caren began. "She was touring the country with a few of her girlfriends, as part of her graduation present from her parents. During their first night in Switzerland, they stopped to rest at an inn near the Alps. The following morning, they woke up early to tour a monastery there, near the Italian border. My mother had studied various religions in college, and was fascinated by them. It was at this monastery where she first met my father."

Oh, good golly-day! But you could have heard the echo of a cracking whip in the silence that followed such a tale! Christopher and I locked eyes briefly, before our gazes shifted back to Caren, who was staring at us as if _we _were the ones who'd committed sin.

Immediately she knew what we were both thinking, and horrified by the very prospect we were even _thinking_ it. "No, no, no!" she insisted, waving her hands about madly. "My father _wasn't _a monk! Like my mother, he was simply interested in learning the ways of the monastery. He was an American like her, only he'd lived in Switzerland for many years. He was discovered by some monks following a skiing accident and brought back to the monastery. He liked it so much, that he decided to stay."

"We had an uncle who disappeared during a skiing accident in the Alps," Christopher elucidated. "Even though his body was never recovered, our family suspects that he perished."

"What was your father's name?" I asked Caren.

"He claimed it was Oliver Fletcher, even though my mother always suspected it was something else."

"What reason would he have to lie to her?" Christopher questioned.

We had reached the crest of the stairway, and a long hallway laid spread out before us. Rather than continue straight downward, we instead clung to our positions on the steps as Caren answered Christopher's continued her story.

"She could never say for sure what it was. But she suspects it had to do with something he told her about his life in America."

"What was it about his life in America that made him want to lie about his real name?" I asked.

"He was a musician, and his father didn't approve. There was even a special word he used to describe what he thought my father was. He said he was…umm…" Caren chewed on her lower lip, trying to recollect the word her mother had used. "Inefeminine."

"I think you mean _effeminate,"_ Christopher corrected.

"Right. Effeminate. In any case, he found it especially effeminate when my father decided to join a traveling orchestra. He wanted his son to finish school, but that's not what _he _wanted. His father threatened to write him out of his will, but he left anyway. He told my mother he didn't care about money, even though his family was very rich. He even said this was one of the reasons he'd decided to stay in the monastery."

It was in the back of my mind to tell Caren about my own grandfather and the fortune he was keeping from my mother. Christopher must have read this consideration in my face. He shot me a look comparable to the one he'd given me during our conversation with Dr. Sheffield. Instinctively my eyes dropped to the steps. I wasn't sure which was more frustrating: Having everyone keep secrets from me, or being forced to keep secrets from everyone else.

"While my mother's friends returned to the village," Caren went on, "my mother decided to stay a bit longer at the monastery. She and my father both liked to paint, and he wanted her advice on a mural he was doing for the monks." Suddenly, she seemed too embarrassed to go on. Like my own eyes had before, hers dropped to the steps as a way to avoid contact with ours. "I guess it's true what they say about two people having a lot in common: That it's just as attractive as looks can be."

Like a thick London fog, silence enveloped us. While the eyes of Christopher and me shifted from one area to the other, Caren continued to stare blindly down at her feet.

When at last the stillness became too much to bear, I took it upon myself to shatter it like a hammer to glass: "Christopher paints, too."

"Really?" Caren's head jolted upward, her eyes scouring with great interest over my brother. "What do you like to paint?"

He shrugged modestly. "Oh, you know—a little of this, a little of that. It all depends on the kind of mood I'm in. And it's not actual painting…just watercolor."

"Like hell it's not!" She blushed, obviously mortified by her own vulgarity. "That's the same type of painting my father did."

"So did our grandfather. He was sick during most of his childhood, and used his watercolor hobby to pass the time."

"What was wrong with him?"

"He had asthma. It was so acute that he was couldn't even go to school. Instead, he spent his days sitting inside of a renovated attic schoolroom. Once a week he had to sit in his bedroom all day, while the rest of the house was purified."

"Wow," said Caren, aghast as she began to pilot us down the long foyer. "How terribly boring that must have been. I would've run away if I'd been your grandfather."

"Confinement was how he discovered his flair for watercolor," Christopher explained. "When a person is restricted to a single space for an extended period of time, they often discover talents they never knew they had."

"Do you _always_ have totalk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like a smarty-pants. How old are you, anyway?"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen, eh? You don't sound like any fourteen-year-old _I've_ ever met. You sound more like you're a schoolteacher."

"Christopher is very smart," I defended.

Caren paused to yank open a door located to the right at the end of the hallway. The door swung open to reveal a large bedroom with turquoise walls and white carpet. To the left of the door was a large, queen-sized bed with a patchwork quilt draped over it. On either side of the bed was a nightstand. Each had its own lamp, while the nightstand on the right had an additional telephone. Hanging from the wall above the bed was a large piece of fabric whose colorful, zigzag design appeared to have been designed by Native Americans. On the opposite side of the room was where a closet, bureau, and vanity table stood, all of which were painted white. A large window with yellow curtains drawn open provided a view of the pool below.

I went to peer through the window. As I did, I saw Grandmother Alicia sitting in the chair Dr. Sheffield had been occupying when we'd first arrived. My grandmother had Cory in her lap, while Mrs. Radcliffe sat in the chair beside her. Even though I couldn't hear anything, it was clear by their concentrated expressions that the two adults were deeply involved in conversation. Neither of them appeared to be at all distracted by Carrie and Isabel, who were chasing each other endlessly around the chairs.

There was no sign of Dr. Sheffield…where could he have gone to? Like a good Samaritan he had vanished, as if he was afraid to take any credit away from Christopher. But why shouldn't Dr. Sheffield accept praise, when _he_ had been the one to breathe life back into Isabel?

"Choose whatever you'd like," Caren said to Christopher, as she flung open the closet doors. "My stepfather isn't particular. He'll honestly take the first shirt and pair of pants he touches. So he'll never notice if anything is missing."

While Christopher was busy choosing something to wear, Caren crossed the room to join me at the window.

She noted the patio, which was empty except for the two adults and three children. "It looks like everyone's left."

"I guess that means we'll be leaving soon, too," I said.

"Don't be so sure. I've seen my mother and your grandmother have _plenty _of conversations. It'll be at least an hour before they move from those spots, trust me."

"Is it all right if I wear these?" the voice of Christopher came from behind us.

Simultaneously, Caren and I turned our attentions away from the window to face him. He was holding up a white, short-sleeved dress shirt and charcoal black trousers.

"Go ahead," said Caren, and then took my arm to lead me toward the door. "Me and Cathy will be in my room—come by once you've finished changing. We'll go downstairs and watch television or something."

"Christopher doesn't care much for television," I said, as Caren shut the door behind us.

"Oh, boy. Your brother is an even _bigger_ weirdo than I thought!"

"He is not! He just prefers reading to rotting his brain, that's all."

Oh, good golly! Why was I suddenly defending my brother, when just two hours ago I would have rejoiced to see him jump off a bridge? Obviously, I knew what it was. As much as I hated to admit it, I was incredibly proud for what he had done to save Caren's little sister. My admiration for him was even stronger than what I had for Dr. Sheffield. And _he_ had done most of the work when it came to reviving Isabel! All Christopher had done was pull her out of the water.

So why was I putting his efforts ahead of Dr. Sheffield's?

* * *

Eponine: I'm sorry for the extent it's taking Cathy and Chris to patch up their differences, LOL. I'll try my best to cover it in the next chapter. :)


	13. Ch 12: Disclosures

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

**A/N: **I used an image found on Google to describe Caren's bedroom.

* * *

A feeling of déjà vu washed over me as Caren pushed open the door to her bedroom. Oh, why did nearly everything inside have to be pink? Pink, the color of the walls and furnishings in my old bedroom back in Gladstone!

Caren's bedroom was draped in a floral theme, from the curtains to the bedspread. Even the wallpaper behind the headboard was decorated in flowers. The bare walls were painted cotton candy pink. Hanging on the wall above the small, ivory nightstand were two depictions of floral arrangements. Accumulating the nightstand below was a pair of colorful, miniature lamps, along with two small vases containing artificial flowers.

The remaining furniture was white to complement the femininity of pastel colors that made up the room. Near the bed was a small vanity, where photographs and magazine clippings of movie stars had been taped to the mirror.

On the other side of the room stood a desk where papers and books had been strewn across it. There was a small, walk in closet with two peacocks painted in gold on its doors.

While I stood around admiring the most magnificent bedroom I'd seen since my own, Caren flopped down on the bed. "So, what would you like to do first?"

I shrugged and repeated her question, putting some emphasis on the 'you'.

"I don't know. I have some magazines we can flip through."

Sprawling across the bed, she began rummaging through a stack of magazines stuffed between it and the nightstand. She hauled up a huge pile and dumped them on the bed. Most were _Seventeen_ and _Calling All Girls,_ but there were a few issues of _Cosmopolitan, Vanity Fair, _and _Vogue._

"Those were my mother's," Caren verified, signaling to the last three titles. "She gave them to me for a collage I was doing for school. I think all that's left of the pages are a headless Doris Day and a legless Elizabeth Taylor."

"You cut off Elizabeth Taylor's legs?" I asked.

"Not intentionally. She was on the page behind a picture I cut out of Audrey Hepburn. And I wasn't going to sacrifice Audrey for Elizabeth. Elizabeth is okay, but Audrey is the _ginchiest._ Did you see _Roman Holiday?"_

"I saw it on cable with my parents when I was ten."

"Hah! I saw it in the movies when I was _eight. _Looks like I've got you beat, Dollanganger."

As much as I'd begun to like Caren, there was no denying she was one of those girls who'd get under your skin if you let her. Bearing in mind all she had to contend with at home, though, I decided not to hold anything against her. Perhaps being occasionally obnoxious was her own way of dealing with the pain she was so determined to keep hidden.

We spent the next twenty minutes or so flipping through magazines. We giggled and pointed out every man and boy we considered most attractive.

"Do you know who I like?" Caren asked me.

"Who?"

She smiled and ran her tongue over her braces, contemplating her answer. "Marlon Brando—he reminds me of Uncle Paul, when he was younger. Except in _Streetcar. _You never saw Paul Sheffield treat Julia the way Stanley Kowalski treated Stella."

"Who's Julia?" I asked.

"Didn't your grandmother ever tell you?"

I shook my head.

Suddenly Caren's face took on a sullen expression, and she lowered her eyes to the magazine in her hands. "Julia is Paul's wife."

I couldn't understand why Caren sounded so sad as she said this. Surely if she saw Paul as her uncle, then she thought of Julia as her aunt. "Oh. I didn't even know he was married."

"Well, theirs isn't exactly a picture-perfect romance. It's more like Snow White without the happy-ending."

"What do you mean?"

"Eleven years ago," Caren began, "Julia was in an automobile accident. Scotty, her and Paul's son, was with her. It was June, the day of Scotty's third birthday. He and Julia had gone to the drugstore to get some candy. It was pouring rain outside, so they decided to take the car. The weather only got worse on the way home, so Julia took a shortcut. It was near the river, and they had to drive across a bridge."

Caren raised her head, and I saw by her grim expression that what I was about to hear would be far from good.

"The rain had made the bridge slippery, so they must have swerved all over the place. They had almost made it to the other side, when suddenly Julia lost control and crashed into the guardrail. The car went over the side and fell into the water. It landed in such a way that her head was above the water, but Scotty…" Caren turned to gaze out the large window on the other side of the room. Her face was encased in sorrow as she revealed what I somehow sensed had been inevitable all along. "Scotty _wasn't _so lucky. He was sitting in the backseat, far to the right where the car had slanted. He was drowning while his mother sat up front, unconscious and unable to save him."

I raised my hands and pressed them to my mouth in shock.

"By the time paramedics got there, Scotty was already dead, while Julia clung to life. She'd hit her head sometime before the car went over the bridge and never woke up. Now, while Scotty lies buried in the ground, his mother lies in a coma at Clairmont Hospital. Uncle Paul visits her every day, hoping to see a change. But there never is one. So"—she let out a long, heavy sigh—"he just sits by her bedside, holding her hand and praying for her to wake up."

A long time passed before either of us spoke again. It made sense now how Dr. Paul Sheffield could disappear so soon after reviving Isabel Radcliffe. He didn't strike me at all the type who would perform his duty and then vanish as if his efforts meant nothing. I knew he'd had a reason to do what he had, though it was far from being the reason I'd expected.

"I heard my mother and your grandmother talking once," Caren went on, her voice startling me out of my thoughts. "They seem to think Uncle Paul visits Julia as a way to punish himself for what happened to her and Scotty."

"What do you mean? I thought it was _Julia _who was driving the car."

"It was. But it's my _uncle _who feels responsible."

"Responsible for an accident he didn't even cause?" I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around such an insinuation. Adults were supposed to know everything, weren't they? Or know, at least, the general idea of everything. I had learned from Christopher that physicians were methodically educated individuals. How else would they be able to diagnose their patients, or know which drugs to prescribe them?

"It's confusing to me, too," Caren admitted. "I asked them to explain it, but they refused, saying I was too young to understand. I even asked my uncle about it once. But he looked so sad I never brought it up again."

"Where did he go earlier," I asked, "after making sure Isabel was okay?"

"He said he was going back to Clairmont, to make rounds at the hospital." Caren frowned then, looking cynical. "He's not, though—I know he's not. Well…" She shrugged. "Maybe he is, but it won't be because anyone's sick or injured. If he does go, it will be to see Julia, even though he already saw her this morning. He was supposed to stay here until six, and then drive back to Clairmont." She glanced down at her magazine and idly flipped a few pages. When she spoke again, her voice was distant. "I think seeing Isabel the way she was upset him so much that he couldn't stay."

"My grandmother says he has a hard time seeing kids who are seriously hurt."

"Yeah." Caren closed the magazine and turned her full attention to me. "It's a wonder he hasn't had a nervous breakdown yet, you know? With all the death and unpleasantness that goes on every day at his job, you'd think he would've quit the medical profession _years _ago."

"Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe he feels that since he can't help his wife and son, then he helps other people instead."

She nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds like something my mother would say."

"My brother wants to be a doctor," said I, suddenly feeling like I owed it to Christopher after all he'd done to save the life of a little girl he barely knew.

"Oh, yeah? What kind of doctor?"

"A physician. He plans to open up his own practice and everything."

"Where will he open it?"

I shrugged. "He isn't sure yet, but he's thinking Pennsylvania. That's where we used to live with our mother and father."

"I remember. My mother told me all about Pennsylvania. She's says it's huge—like New York City. Not as noisy and flashy, but big enough. I think if your brother _does _open up his own practice, then it should be in Pennsylvania. He won't have any trouble finding people to be his patients, that's for sure. I'd say he and Uncle Paul should open up a shared practice there, if it wasn't for the fact I'd never see him."

Caren and I had gotten so involved in our conversation, that the ringing of the telephone cutting through the air at that moment surprised me. That was when I remembered Momma had promised to call, and I jumped up. "That must be my mother! Where's your telephone?"

"There's one in my parents' bedroom you can use. It'll be quicker than going all the way down to the kitchen."

I thanked Caren for her hospitality and then rushed out of the room. It was doubtful I would reach the phone before Christopher, who I hadn't heard come out of the nearby bedroom. He may have been a brute, but certainly not the type who would deprive someone the chance of speaking with their mother.

The door to Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe's bedroom had been left ajar. Sitting on the bed was Christopher, fully clothed in Mr. Radcliffe's garments. They were a little large, but aside from that, I must say they suited my brother quite nicely. He had the phone pressed to his ear and appeared content. His cerulean blue eyes sparkled as he laughed in response to something on the other line. Of course, I just knew the person he was communicating with was Momma. For who else could light up the face and bring joy to the voice of the infamous Christopher Doll?

"…and you mean to say her closet is full of nothing but gray taffeta? Just the same dress for every day of the week? What does she do when there's a special occasion? You can't tell me your mother doesn't own at least _one _elegant garment, Momma! What? A diamond brooch? Well, I suppose that would be considered an item of sophistication…"

Christopher went on to tell the story of how he had saved Isabel and of the praise he'd received. It was funny how he could be so unpretentious around strangers, but when it came to our own mother, he wasn't afraid to brag. I was pleased, however, to hear him acknowledge the efforts of Dr. Sheffield. After all, he had taken a back seat while Christopher took first place as Hero of the Day.

"You should have _seen _him, Momma! He was incredible! While everyone else was screaming and crying, it was Dr. Paul Sheffield who took control of the situation."

I hated to interrupt the first conversation my brother had had with our mother in more than two days. Rather, I chose to situate myself in the entryway and patiently wait my turn, mulling over what I would say.

They talked for a few more minutes, until at last Christopher said goodbye and extended the phone to me. I approached him and accepted the phone, pressing it to my ear. "Hello, Momma."

"_Hello, darling!" _My mother's voice was blissful. The disheartened tone she had expressed the night before no longer served as a diversion to my happiness. I smiled, clutching the phone as if it were her hand. _"How are you?"_

I beamed. "I'm well, Momma. And you?"

"_I'm doing better, Cathy, much better."_

As desperate as I was to confront her on her conversation with Grandmother Alicia, I forced myself to hold my tongue. There was nothing I could say in connection to something I wasn't supposed to know about. Out of all the questions I had for my mother, there were only a few I was sure would not be met with displeasure. I asked one such question now: "Has your father forgiven you yet?"

There was a long, drawn out pause on the other line. If I hadn't heard my mother's shallow breathing, I would have thought she'd hung up the telephone. As I received my answer, the look Christopher gave me told me flat out that he had been without the courage to ask the question himself.

"_No."_

I shook my head to indicate to him the answer. He frowned.

"_I'm sorry, but my father is not the type to forgive easily. And what I did was a terrible thing—in _his _eyes, at least. It's going to take a little more time before he's able to—"_

"How _much _longer?" It was clear from all my mother was saying that she was stalling—for what reason I had no idea. And she _still_ hadn't told us what this 'terrible thing' was she had done to anger her father.

"_I don't know." _Her tone suggested impatience, which made my enthusiasm for the truth dwindle slightly. _"Please, Cathy. Please understand that I'm doing the best I can by you four children. Do you remember when you and Chris were young? How you would beg your father or me for a toy you saw in a shop window, and we would tell you to wait until Christmas? Keep in mind your anticipation and excitement as they grew. You loved every minute of it, didn't you? Suspense is half the fun, isn't it? You even told me so yourself how you enjoyed it more than opening up presents."_

She wasn't lying. I _had _said that, one memorable Christmas morning four years ago. I had just finished unwrapping the beautiful porcelain doll with real eyes that opened and closed. It had even come with its own trunk of outfits, one for each day of the week. That doll had been the topic of every conversation between my parents and me for six solid months. Oh, I had loved that doll more than any other Christmas gift I'd received that year! I had loved the feeling of tearing away the colorful, shiny paper and seeing her sitting in a superbly decorated box. But there was no way I could renounce how much fun the magic and wonder leading up to Christmas morning had been for me—and for Christopher, too.

Still, what fun was there in sitting around and waiting for an old man to die?

"_I have good news for you," _Momma said, when I failed to endorse her former explanation with a response. _"How would you like it if I was to come to Richmond next week?"_

Was she kidding? Didn't she know those were the exact words I'd been waiting to hear for two long days now? Whatever neglect I had been feeling moments earlier was quickly swapped with a sensation of joy. "Oh, Momma!" Excitement surged through me like a surge of electricity, and I shot up from the bed. "Do you really, truly, _honestly mean it?"_

"_Cathy, the things you say!" _She laughed, and I could picture most clearly the smile of delight on her face. It was so easy to relish in her happiness, for its affect was that of sunlight shining down on the world. _"I've already discussed it with your grandmother. Friday morning I'll take the nine o'clock train out of Charlottesville. I should arrive in Richmond sometime after one in the afternoon."_

"That's wonderful, Momma!" Then, before I could sink any deeper into my excitement, I asked, "How long will you be staying?"

"_Just for the weekend—but I'll see if I can return sometime during the week."_

"Will you stay the night then, too?"

She must have sensed the hope in my voice, for she answered, _"We'll see."_

"How are things at Foxworth Hall? Is it just the way you remember it? How many rooms are there? Does it have its own garden?"

"_Darling, please—one question at a time!" _She paused, and I waited patiently while she gathered her thoughts together. _"No, my childhood home hasn't changed much at all in the years I've been away. The only thing that's different now is that my father's study has been converted into something of a hospital room. Since it's closer to the main section of the house, it's easier for his doctors and nurses to tend to him. No one can say for sure how many rooms Foxworth Hall has, but it is believed to be at least thirty or forty."_

Good golly! But Foxworth Hall had just as many rooms as my school did classrooms—probably more.

"What about the garden?" I pressed.

"_Oh, yes, the garden. My parents' home has a _variety_ of gardens, all of them comprised of the most colorful blossoms you've ever seen. Many were planted by the same gardener who worked for your grandfather."_

"Olson."

"_How did you—"_

"Grandmother Alicia told me. She said she used to help him plant flowers back when she lived at Foxworth Hall."

"_Of course." _The nature of my mother's tone was thoughtful. _"Then some of those flowers are ones she probably deposited herself."_

I grinned. "If they're pink, then _all _of them are hers."

"_How are Carrie and Cory? Have they cried for me at all since I left?"_

The way Momma said this indicated she _wanted_ the twins to be miserable without her. Oh, how could I tell her the only time they'd cried for her had been the morning she'd left? Carrie had shed tears adequate for her _and _Cory, who had really only cried because his sister had. Grandmother Alicia was enough like Momma so that the twins were able to adjust to their mother's absence quickly. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't bring myself to tell Momma how well Carrie and Cory were faring. We'd been having such a nice chat, and I'd hate to say anything to ruin it. So I simply told Momma that yes, the twins did miss her. I even added how thrilled they'd be when they found out she'd be in Richmond within the coming days.

"_Perhaps you should wait for the morning of my arrival before telling them. You know how excitable the twins can get, after all. Their repetitive questions of when I'll be arriving, and what time you'll be leaving to meet me will surely send the rest of you climbing the walls."_

Grandmother Alicia's patience with Carrie's tantrums topped that of everyone who'd ever dealt with them. But Momma's words were enough to warn me that surely there were bridges even my _grandmother _would be unwilling to cross.

I assured my mother that her approaching visit would remain a secret from the twins. This seemed to satisfy her, though I was _far _from being satisfied. I still had questions—so many questions! Questions that swam riotously around my head, like goldfish that had been dispensed from a glass bowl into an open pond. Questions I desperately wanted answers to, and yet, frustratingly enough, questions I feared would never be answered.

"Momma, what's my other grandmother like? You've told us about your father, but what sort of person is your mother? She must like you, and you've got to feel the same about her, or why else would you return to Foxworth Hall?"

"_Yes, Cathy. My mother and I always had a good relationship when I was growing up."_

"Oh." I smiled, relieved to know that at least _one _of my grandparents on my mother's side did not appear to be one set on holding grudges. "I'm glad. It's just that you never talked about her until after Daddy died, so I was never quite sure what to think."

"_We're on good terms. She's still upset over what I did, but she's forgiven me."_

"Is she the woman you and Christopher were talking about before? The one who wears nothing but gray taffeta?"

Momma laughed. _"Yes, darling. That would be my mother."_

"You should invite her to come along with you to Richmond. That way, Christopher and the twins and I can all meet her."

"_I'm afraid that won't be possible. She needs to stay and oversee the care my father is receiving. Besides, I'm afraid she and your Grandmother Alicia don't exactly get along."_

That detail had been mentioned only once by Grandmother Alicia herself, in her story pertaining to Uncle Joel's strawberry allergy. I should not have forgotten it, but somehow I had. Though how anyone could find it difficult to interact with my grandmother was as startling as ever. It was like a rabbit refusing to eat a carrot.

"Did your mother ever tell you why she and Grandmother Alicia found it so hard to get along?"

"_Your Grandmother Alicia was very pretty in her youth. Your Grandmother Olivia was as well, but so ill at ease with herself that all she ever saw were flaws. She's very tall, my mother—almost as tall as your father was. It was her tallness that often made her hesitate to mingle with other women. She insists it was her size that caused the men her father invited to court her to become intimidated and disappear. All except your grandfather, who was the first man to appreciate her for the person she was: An educated woman who was never afraid to speak her mind."_

"I don't understand, Momma. If Grandmother Olivia was attractive _and _smart, then obviously she had everything Grandmother Alicia did. What was missing in her life that could make her so jealous?"

There was a long, lingering pause on the other line before Momma spoke again. The single word she expressed provided me with more of an answer than any inquiry I'd ever made prior to then.

"_Love."_


	14. Ch 13: Homecoming

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

The train station resembled the end of World War II that Friday afternoon when we arrived to meet Momma. So none of us would be swallowed up by the crowd, we formed a sort of human chain for Grandmother Alicia to lead through our tightly packed location.

The moist summer air was blended by the sounds of people's voices and the penetrating whistles of trains coming and going. Cory, who loved trains and was at the end of our chain, broke our stride persistently to glance around.

"Now, Cory," Christopher said. "You do want to see Momma, don't you?"

Cory's big blue eyes widened, as if all that had been promised to him that morning was about to be snatched away. He nodded his curly blond head dynamically.

"Well, then you can't continue to hold the rest of us up. Momma's train is set to arrive any minute. When it does and if we aren't there to greet her with kisses, she might think we forgot about her and return to Charlottesville. You don't want that, do you?"

"No, Christopher, no!" Cory's normally timid voice was now a high-pitched shrill. Fear illuminated his round face as he stared with desperation up at Christopher.

"It's not fair!" argued Carrie, her own voice and face as frantic as Cory's, yet mixed with her typical childish fury. "Don't want Momma not to come when you and Cathy said she was gonna!"

While I had forgiven Christopher his lack of sensitivity toward my own feelings, I wouldn't stand by and let him disappoint the twins. I glared hard at him, before bestowing a kinder, gentler gaze to our younger brother and sister.

"Momma _is _coming to see us—but Christopher is right. It would be bad manners not to be there when Momma steps off the train. Do you remember how she arrived each day at your nursery school long before dismissal? How you smiled and laughed and ran to her when you got outside and saw her waiting for you? Think back, now. Try to remember a time where you dashed through the door and she _wasn't_ on the other side."

Cory and Carrie observed me, considering my words carefully. Then they looked at each other, immersing themselves in some silent form of the secret language only they could understand.

When Cory didn't cry, and when Carrie failed to let loose with another protest, I knew my attempts to calm them had succeeded. As much as I wanted to gloat my latest victory over Christopher, my desire was quickly set astray by a moderate tug on my hand. I turned to see my grandmother, who was smiling in a way my father always had whenever he was especially proud of me. It felt good to have earned that support once more—even though it _did _come from someone who already thought me so exceptional. Grandmother Alicia said I possessed a natural, motherly instinct that was part of my charm.

Daddy had always said his mother had her own special 'charms'—charms that men found irresistible. She had never used these charms to her advantage, but they were something men could sense…like perfume. Being only ten at the time, I'd had no idea what he could possibly be referring to. After all, what could grown men possibly find so fascinating about little trinkets found on bracelets worn by girls my age? Naturally, I'd sought out the best source I had to answer my questions. And, oh, boy, was I ever surprised by what I learned!

"Charms are something a woman possesses," Christopher explained to me. "Sometimes, those charms are intentional. Like in the delicate way she flutters her eyelashes, or displays a certain type of garment to attract a man's attention. Then there are times where it's purely inadvertent. Such as the resonance of her voice, or the sound of her laughter. Even something as simple as a woman's _sneeze _can be charming to a man—it's all a matter of personal preference."

But Grandmother Alicia didn't consider her individual charms as anything more than the natural structure of her personality. Always had she gone out of her way to shower those around her with kindness and understanding. How anyone could interpret those qualities differently stretched far beyond my own innocent philosophies.

Whether she knew it or not, Grandmother Alicia's 'charms' earned us a place at the head of the crowd. I paid close attention to the way she smiled politely at everyone around us. As anxious as I was to see one of the men react, none ever did. The closest any man came was in the gentlemanly way one tipped his hat to the four of us as we passed by. The action was no different from that which I'd seen Daddy pay little old ladies we passed on the streets of Gladstone.

A looming whistle punctured the air just after we'd made it to the front of the crowd. Grandmother Alicia stood between Christopher and me, holding fast to the hands of the twins.

The train's whistle immediately sent Cory into a state of feisty jumping. Up and down he bounced, all the while holding tightly to his grandmother's hand. "Where's the train, Granma? I wanna see the train!"

She laughed, giving his small hand a light squeeze. "It's coming, darling, see?" She motioned with her head to a trail of thick vapor rising high above the trees in the distance. "The closer that steam gets, the sooner the train shall arrive."

"The same train Momma's on?"

"It should be, unless it's been delayed. Though I don't see how that can be, as we surely would have heard something by now."

"Look!" Carrie squealed, pointing her little finger heavenward. "The steam's getting closer! That means the train will be here soon, doesn't it, Granma?"

"That's right, Carrie. It won't be long now."

"How long _will _it be?" asked Cory.

"Look, Cory." Christopher raised his hand and indicated to the trees lining our side of the tracks. "Do you notice how every tree stands exactly the same distance apart? Count them. You'll see that the time it takes to say each number equals the same amount of time it takes for the steam to pass each tree."

Cory's face was a clear sign that Christopher's idea had intrigued him. Cory could count higher than anyone else in his class, and had been the first to recite all of his ABC's in perfect order. Turning his gaze toward the trees, he began to verbally calculate them in accordance with the seconds it took the train's steam to pass each one.

He had reached number fifty by the time the train stopped before us, its shrill whistle blowing for the final time. Even as the twins threw their hands over their ears, their expressions betrayed their delight. A few minutes went by before the train's door opened and the passengers began to pile off. My heart beat in anticipation as our eyes searched for Momma, all of us eager to run and greet her with kisses. Just as we'd done for Daddy whenever he returned home from a long day at work or extended business trip.

Eventually Momma appeared, holding the smallest of her two suitcase. Her worn expression immediately told me that something was wrong. _Dreadfully wrong. _Always did my mother hold her head high and walk with a graceful elegance that made those she passed stop and stare. Now, she moved with overt stiffness, her head bowed so low that all we could see was a mass of blond hair.

The twins' insistent tugging forced Grandmother Alicia to escort them to Momma's side before she'd even reached us. Christopher shot me a worried look, then hurried after our grandmother and siblings. I was right behind him just as Cory and Carrie reached eagerly for Momma. I never missed the fleeting look of pain in her face as she stooped to embrace her two youngest children.

"Momma!" exclaimed Christopher. He threw his arms around her as if it had been a year rather than a week since he'd last seen her. "It's so good to see you. How was the journey from Charlottesville?"

Momma winced at his touch, her faltering smile further proof that something awful had occurred since we'd last seen her. Grandmother Alicia worked quickly to pull into her arms the twins, who were eager for their mother to pick them up. After passing Carrie off to Christopher and Cory off to me, our grandmother picked up the suitcase and put her other arm carefully around Momma.

My grandmother, siblings and I headed back to the car much less enthused than we had been when first arriving at the station. On the way, Christopher sent me continuous glances that clearly displayed all I was feeling inside. The twins asked us over and over what was wrong with Momma, to which we responded over and over we weren't sure. Meanwhile, up ahead, she and Grandmother Alicia were involved in a conversation the rest of us couldn't hear. The penetrating sounds of whistles and voices made that impossible.

It wasn't until I felt Christopher catch my freehand in his that I finally heard something I could understand.

"Have no fear, my lady Cath-er-ine. For, come hell or high water, I vow that together we shall uncover the enigma our mother is shielding."

Despite clinging tightly to my worst suspicions, I clung equally tightly to Christopher's hand. Its warmth, and the tenderness of his smile as he met my eyes, gave me hope. Hope had become such a rarity in our lives, that I was willing to take whatever hope came my way. But when that hope was offered by my very own eternal cockeyed optimist, I was more willing than ever to accept.

* * *

From almost the moment we arrived back at the cottage, Grandmother Alicia ordered us, her four darling grandchildren, to remain outside. She didn't tell us why, but promised we would all know soon enough. As Grandmother Alicia closed the front door, I thought I heard Momma start to cry.

While the twins went out to the yard to play on the swing-set, Christopher and I lingered on the porch. "Don't you find it ironic," I asked as I slumped into the swing, "that after all this time of waiting to see our mother, we're being pushed away like dust swept under the carpet?"

"Oh, Cathy, there you go again with your exaggerations." Christopher crossed his arms and leaned against the railing. "I'm sure Momma and Grandmother Alicia have a perfectly logical explanation for keeping us in the dark. Perhaps they're planning something for the holidays."

"Momma was practically in _tears _before, Christopher. I hardly think Thanksgiving and Christmas are the cause."

My answer had clearly stumped him. Turning his back to me, he took hold of two of the many bars that made up the porch railing, sliding his feet beneath the base. He pushed back, then forward, then back, and so on. There wasn't much else to do, and I wanted to be around when Grandmother Alicia called us inside. So I sat, swinging back and forth in the swing, keeping in tune with Christopher's own movements. I could only imagine the quips Caren Radcliffe would make of our activity if she happened to be strolling by.

Eventually I grew bored of watching Christopher's routine, which was starting to look more neurotic by the second. I was just about to announce I was going to join Carrie and Cory by the swings, when the sound of the door opening beside me caught my attention.

I stopped swinging, and Christopher stopped whatever it was he was doing (I don't believe there will ever be a title that can accurately describe it). I looked to my right, while he whirled on his heels to face the door. Standing before us was Grandmother Alicia, who looked as though she'd been crying. Panic fractured inside me, as I predicted the reason behind my mother's peculiar behavior.

"Cathy," said my grandmother, her always melodic voice now aberrantly husky, "Chris. Your mother would like to see you."

Quickly I scrambled to my feet. "What's wrong with her?"

"Please tell us, Grandmother!" Christopher urged.

"She isn't well." Grandmother Alicia lifted her head, as if examining something in the tall oak tree behind Christopher. Then, fixing her eyes on us once more, she said, "Please, don't ask me any more questions. Your mother made me promise she would be the one to tell you herself. She's waiting for you and Cathy in my room." She paused, and glanced around. "Where are Carrie and Cory?"

"They're by the swings," I said.

Christopher and I were racing through the door and up the stairs before Grandmother Alicia had even reached the porch steps. I knew this was true because I stopped halfway up the stairway to see her watching us forlornly from the doorway. Then I whisked around and flung myself up the remaining few steps after my brother.


	15. Ch 14: The Price of Love

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews. The books were consulted often for this chapter, so if any wording contained in the following passages sounds more than a little familiar, then that is why.

**A/N: **I would like to extend my appreciation to GrayRainbows, for proof-reading this chapter and helping me make it the very best it could possibly be. Thank you! Thank you, as well, to everyone who's been reading and commenting on this story. Even those of you who don't comment, thank you, too. I am very grateful for everyone's interest. :)

* * *

Fear was all that kept me going before the closed door to my grandmother's bedroom came into view. Christopher, who was several steps ahead, shoved open the door, revealing our mother, who was lying stark still on her stomach across the bed. She was naked for all but the pair of wet towels that had been draped over her backside, from her neck to the start of her ankles. As I edged my way through the door behind Christopher, I saw that Momma had buried her face in the pillow. It was as if her current state had rendered her with so much shame that she couldn't bear to face us.

"Momma," said Christopher softly, as he knelt by the side of the bed that faced the door. Carefully he reached for her hand, which was resting limply on the pillow. "What's happened? Grandmother Alicia said you're unwell, but…" With the same loving tenderness Daddy would have exhibited, Christopher trailed his fingers across Momma's back. She winced, as if it hurt her. "Oh, Momma…"

"Did you get a sun burn?" I asked from where I hadn't moved from the doorway. It would be a few more minutes before I realized how stupid the question sounded. But for the time being, it was the only rational explanation that could explain my mother's current condition.

It wasn't until she looked up that I abandoned my place by the door. I crouched beside Christopher so that my face was on even par with his and Momma's. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face tear-streaked, as if she hadn't stopped crying since our return to the cottage. Christopher raised his hand and laced his fingers through hers. I continued to squat beside him, feeling inadequate and unsure of what I could do to help improve the situation.

"Grandmother Alicia said you wanted to talk to us," Christopher said after a moment.

Momma nodded, wincing as if that, too, caused her considerable pain. Just seeing her like this was enough to make _me _want to cry. But I restrained myself, my refusal to give in riding strong. The last thing any of us needed was for me to make worse of such a dire state of affairs.

"Momma," I asked, uncertain of how to phrase the question but unwilling to hold it in any longer, "why are you all covered in wet towels?"

She lowered her head and shut her eyes, emitting a pitiful sob.

Christopher gripped my hand, which hovered uselessly at my side. "Momma," he went on, "it's obvious you're in great pain. Cathy and I will let you rest, but before we do, all we ask is that you answer a few of our questions." He squeezed hard and then delivered his next question to our mother. "Did your injury occur at Foxworth Hall?"

Our mother's eyes widened, as if she hadn't been expecting her fourteen-year-old son to compose such an accurate reply. But it wasn't until we saw fresh tears fill her eyes that I was hit with the harsh reality that all I'd feared up until now was true.

"Yes."

"What sort of injury did you suffer?" Judging by Christopher's tone, he was beginning to struggle with his emotions just as I was with mine.

I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes. I squeezed his hand, not only as a way to comfort myself, but him as well. I turned away and wiped the tears from my eyes, before Momma could notice and become even more distressed.

"I was whipped," she replied sorrowfully. "Whipped as punishment for falling in love with your father eighteen years ago."

"Who whipped you?" I asked, the painful lump perforating my throat.

"John Amos Jackson. He is my mother's third cousin, but serves as butler to her and my father. John Amos claims my mother is to blame for what happened between me and your father. He said that God would redeem her her 'failings' if she utilized the whip and suffered along with me. But she refused, saying she couldn't bring herself to punish me in such a brutal and inhuman manner. She pleaded with him not to force her, and he offered to take her place. He took the whip from my father, then turned to my mother and regarded her as one would a dog that has disobeyed its master. He sneered, and called her weak. He then ordered her to stay and witness the wrath brought on by God for the 'sin' she'd let ensue. For one desperate, fleeting moment our eyes locked. My mother isn't one to let herself be ruled by emotion. When she does cry, she always does so in private. But as I looked into her eyes then, I saw she had no intention of hiding her tears. She turned to John Amos, and at first I thought she might be planning to defy him. She raised her hand as if to strike, but he snatched it before she could, twisting her wrist until she cried out. He stormed at her, and threatened to punish her, too. 'God would not object,' he said scathingly. 'You have my word on that, woman.' It was this threat that forced my mother to discard whatever courage she'd had and watch the whip as it cracked across my backside."

Tears were rolling down Momma's cheeks as she finished her chilling account. As Christopher recovered a handful of tissues from a box sitting on the nightstand, I finally gave up the battle with my own feelings. Momma motioned for me to lay my head beside hers on the pillow. But I was afraid to, thinking I would accidentally hurt her somehow. I waited while Christopher wiped away the tears from her eyes, using the same tender motions Daddy would have. She sobbed then, as if reminded of the husband who'd probably been cradling her in his arms at this same time last year. I couldn't bear to imagine how he'd react if he saw what she'd been through. How the soft, creamy-smooth skin he'd treasured so dearly had been so tortured and mistreated.

Oh, how I hated them both. The detestable grandfather Malcolm and that hideous butler John Amos. How I longed to get my hands on them _and _that grotesque whip! To reprimand them for punishing my sweet, beautiful mother so cruelly and unjustly.

Rage escaped me in the form of sorrowful tears as I watched Christopher kiss away the ones staining our mother's cheeks. He kissed each one, before turning to me and putting his arms about me.

The three of us sat there crying for God-knew-how-long: Momma into her pillow, and Christopher and me into each other's shoulders. None of us raised our heads until the creak of the door sounded. We looked up to see Grandmother Alicia, with Cory and Carrie standing at each of her sides. Worry tinted my grandmother's face as her eyes scanned over us, while the twins' own eyes housed feelings of concern and fear. They clung desperately to the corners of their grandmother's dress, pressing the sides of their faces to her hips.

"Corrine," asked my grandmother, "have you told them yet?"

The sob Momma let out then was more desperate and strangled than any of the other cries she'd expressed thus far. So abundant with sadness was it that Carrie and Cory buried their faces in Grandmother Alicia's dress. Her arms, which were already bound to them, raised, her palms closing over their ears and pushing each twin closer to her sides.

"Children," she said. "There's a big plate of chocolate chip cookies waiting for you in the kitchen. Why don't you go downstairs and have some?"

"With you?" Cory asked.

"I'll be there to join you in a few minutes, sweetheart."

"You promise?" Carrie pressed.

"Yes, darling, I promise."

"What about Momma?" questioned Cory, his gaze drifting to the bed.

"Your mother isn't feeling well, I'm afraid," Grandmother Alicia explained. "So, why don't you save a few of those cookies to bring up to her later?"

Carrie and Cory were all too willing to agree. Happy with permission to have sweets so close to dinnertime, they hurried out of the room. It wasn't until after we'd heard them trip back down the stairway that Grandmother Alicia closed the door. She turned and spoke calmly to Momma.

"Perhaps waiting would be the best option after all. At least until after you've had a chance to rest."

"No." With great effort Momma hoisted herself into a half-sitting position, grimacing in pain. "No, Alicia. I'd much prefer to do it now than spend one more day lying to my children."

In readjusting her pose, the towel coating Momma's back peeled away from her neck, revealing samples of the many crimson lacerations lining her beautiful flesh. It was devastatingly obvious by the swollen wounds that a whip was indeed responsible. I cringed back and let out a small squeak of anguish, turning my face into Christopher's chest. He pressed me close, his chin resting on top of my head.

"What is this about?" he demanded of our mother and grandmother. "Momma, what do you mean by 'lying'? Since when have you ever lied to us?"

"Lies…your entire lives have been nothing _but _lies!" she cried passionately. Startled, I glanced up. She shifted tensely, so that the towel continued to loosen from her backside. Leaning forward, I made to push the moist cloth back into place. But I was stopped at the last second by the thought of adding to her pain.

Grandmother Alicia abandoned her place in the doorway for the bed, lowering herself down onto it. "Corrine." She spoke kindly and patiently as she readjusted Momma's towels. She instructed Momma to lie down again, which she did. "Your concealing of the truth was no worse than Olivia's. You and Chris kept his identity a secret from your children for much the same reasons Olivia kept it from the two of _you."_

Oh, golly-lolly! What on Earth was my grandmother talking about? Had Daddy been a different person than what my siblings and I had been led to believe? Was he a criminal? A spy? Did he have another family stashed away in some covert place somewhere?

Grandmother Alicia then picked up a patchwork quilt sitting at the foot of the bed. She unfolded the quilt, draping the fabric carefully across my mother's ravaged body, before reclaiming her place beside Momma.

"You already know that your mother's father was an associate of my first husband's." As my grandmother spoke, her kind eyes never left those of my brother and me. "What you _don't_ know is just how deeply that relationship ran. You see, in addition to being your grandfather, Garland Christopher Foxworth was also your _great-_grandfather."

"But how can that be?" Christopher demanded. "That would have to mean his son was—" He stopped, and the room filled with a deadly silence. The truth hit Christopher and me at the same time, like a fist to the chest. We gasped, staring at one another in shock as we fit the pieces of the bizarre puzzle together.

"Malcolm Neal Foxworth was what you'd call lustful in his younger days," Grandmother Alicia began. "Your Grandfather Garland and I were living with Malcolm and Olivia, along with your two uncles, at Foxworth Hall. It was about two and a half years after Garland and I arrived, when Malcolm began making unwanted advances toward me. Always did I do my best to avoid him, but every time he managed to seek me out, wherever I was. I soon realized I should have paid more attention to his actions from the beginning. How the signs all pointed to the same outcome. It never occurred to me that the long looks and chivalrous gestures were Malcolm's way of getting me to notice him. But I was so young then, and, in many ways, naïve. I never gave any thought to what he was trying to do. I loved your Grandfather Garland in a way I'd never loved any man before your Grandfather Alistair. I never fantasized, except for those black days following Garland's death and I needed a way to escape my grief. But never did I picture myself with any man _except_ him."

Talking of Grandfather Garland almost never failed to bring tears to Grandmother Alicia's eyes. But this was the first tale she'd ever told where the tears she shed were those of sorrow. Christopher snatched another handful of tissues from the box and handed them to her.

"Thank you, Chris," she said, dabbing gently at one eye and then the other as she continued. "It was later that same year, on the night of my son's third birthday, when Malcolm finally had his way with me. Garland heard my screams of protest and, being the savior of young women in peril his sister always alleged him to be, hurried to my rescue. I don't expect he ever anticipated what he would find. Perhaps if he had, then his heart might not have…" She trailed off, tears rolling down her cheeks as I felt the lump rise once more in my throat. "He gave his life to defend me. Again and again I told myself that if I had only gone to him about Malcolm, then all of what ensued could have been avoided. Garland's doctor said he had a bad heart, yet I still believed his life could have been extended had he known the truth about his eldest son.

"Before Garland died, Malcolm had convinced him to take him on as executor of his will. Unfortunately for Garland (and, as I would come to realize years later, for your father and me), he never saw through Malcolm's true motives. He had absolute faith in what Malcolm was trying to do, just as he had faith in his talents as a businessman. Garland _trusted_ him. And, in the end, that trust was broken—in more ways than one.

"Malcolm took advantage of my naivety by convincing me to deposit all of my funds into the Stock Market. After Christopher and I returned to Richmond, I followed Malcolm's advice. I transferred every last cent Garland had given us into the Stock Market. For I assumed that nothing but good would ever come of it." Grandmother Alicia grimaced, hanging her head as if she was still so ashamed of her mistake, even after so many years. "What a fool I was. Such a fool for believing in a man as calculating and cruel as Malcolm Neal Foxworth."

She recovered quickly, however, and once more her eyes were upon our faces. "While Malcolm was dealing with my finances, Olivia was dealing with the pregnancy of their third child. Christopher and I left Foxworth Hall before the child was born. It wasn't until after I wrote your mother's parents, asking for their help with Christopher, that I learned the gender of their child. Olivia and I were never close, though I did try numerous times to fall into her good graces. It was my son who filled me in on all that had changed since we'd been gone. He telephoned me the night of his arrival, excited to tell me everything about his new home. He said Olivia and Malcolm had a fourteen-year-old daughter with blond hair and blue eyes like his." Grandmother Alicia's face went blank then, as if she couldn't decide which facial expression was most appropriate. "Do you see where I'm going with all of this, children? Do you know who this little girl who looked so much like my son was?"

If I hadn't guessed already, I had only to look at the bed, at the woman whose eyes were so determined to avoid ours, to realize it. I squeezed Christopher's hand, which had gone limp some time ago. "Momma… It's _you _she's talking about, isn't it?"

"That's right, Cathy," Grandmother Alicia confirmed when my mother failed to respond. "My son was your mother's half-uncle, although they were only two years apart in age. Never did I believe anything would happen between them when I sought the help of my former in-laws. But it's like my mother told me, after she realized how much I loved your Grandfather Garland: 'We don't choose with whom we fall in love; it is that love which chooses us.' Perhaps I am biased, in view of my own experiences. But I have always believed in the words of my mother, who was very wise. Your parents did what they did because they _loved_ each other. They never intended to hurt anyone, even though that's what ended up happening. But please. _Please _find it in your hearts to understand that what your parents did, they did out of love for each other, and nothing else."

No one said anything for the longest time. My brother and I sat stunned, absolutely stunned, as we digested the information fed us by our paternal grandmother. So we were Foxworths twice over—that didn't seem so bad, considering. We were all normal and healthy, except for Cory, who had seasonal hay fever. The time for his monthly allergy shot was fast approaching, and I felt obligated to remind Grandmother Alicia of this. But somehow, it did not seem like the best time to raise the subject.

Finally, Christopher unearthed the courage with which to speak for both of us. "Yes, Grandmother Alicia, of course we understand. We don't blame you or Momma or Daddy for concealing the truth until you felt we were grown up enough to handle it. Still, it isn't a transgression for distant relatives to marry. Besides, in Egypt, it's entirely permissible for a brother to marry his sister."

The tension that drained from the worried faces of our mother and grandmother then was contagious. As I'm sure Christopher did, I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders. Nevertheless, there was still one question left that required an answer, and I took it upon myself to ask it.

"Grandmother Alicia, you mentioned before that Momma and Daddy falling in love hurt someone. If it wasn't a bad thing for them to fall in love, like Christopher said, then why should anyone be hurt?"

"Since your mother last saw them, her parents have become what you'd call fanatically religious. They believe that things the rest of us take for granted—like dances and music and even the clothes we choose to wear—are sinful in the eyes of God. Of course," Grandmother Alicia added before Christopher or I had a chance to form our own theories, "their views on religion only became distorted shortly after Olivia's cousin, John Amos Jackson, came to live at Foxworth Hall."

"The man who hurt Momma," muttered Christopher.

"Yes. Other than your mother, John Amos is your Grandmother Olivia's only other surviving relative. When your Uncle Mal was killed in a motorcycle accident, John Amos emerged through a cloud of turmoil, bearing his bible and a devout smile. He considers himself a preacher, though one with no congregation to speak of. It was John Amos who conducted your uncle's funeral procession. Afterward, Olivia invited him to remain at Foxworth Hall as her butler. Then, after your parents eloped, Malcolm suffered a simultaneous heart attack and stroke. He was left completely paralyzed on his right side, and unable to care for himself. Your grandmother took responsibility of his business, and eventually life returned to a tone of normalcy. I expect that was when John Amos saw his chance and took over the lives of everyone at Foxworth Hall." She sighed, her eyes filling with sympathy as she turned to gaze down at Momma, who lay so weak and still beside her. "For the past fifteen years, he has been using religion as a way to convince your grandparents that their daughter is a sinner."

"But why would he do that?" Christopher asked. "What can Momma's actions possibly matter to him? Is he mad, or is he driven by some sort of tangible cause?"

"It's all part of his plan," Momma enunciated. All five of us turned to stare at her, for these were the first words she'd spoken in what felt like ages. "When I married your father, your grandfather wrote me out of his will and named John Amos as his beneficiary. After my father dies, it is John Amos who will inherit a fortune, along with Foxworth Hall—that is, unless my father forgives me first. There have been a few times where he's suggested it won't be much longer…having John Amos whip me was one indication." I couldn't help it, and shivered at the reminder. "I expect he already feels my return is affecting his status in my father's will. Otherwise he would not have been so quick to take the whip from my father's hand."

"Are John Amos and your father the reasons you left us with Grandmother Alicia? Rather than have us accompany you to Foxworth Hall?"

Momma's eyes lowered. When she spoke, she did so in a low voice laced with shame. "Yes, Christopher. Until your grandfather forgives me, you four children shall remain in the care of your grandmother. It is very important that you lead normal childhoods and go to school. If you were to join me at Foxworth Hall, then I'd have no choice but to hide you away until your grandfather dies."

"What about your mother? If your father dies without forgiving you and this John Amos inherits his estate, then what will become of Grandmother Olivia?"

"I don't know," replied Momma, as tears came to her eyes. "I expect she'll stay on, for she has no other family."

"Except us," I said, and both my mother and grandmother smiled at that.

"She does have one friend…a seamstress who lives in Charlottesville. Even so, my mother's freedom all depends on John Amos' decision. For his control over her is that of a puppet; she won't act unless he orders her to."

"Has he ever hurt her?" Christopher inquired. "Do you think he'll—"

"I don't know. My mother did mention he places the bulk of the blame regarding my relationship with your father solely on _her_ shoulders. He considers himself a man of God, chastising anyone who dares flout or question his deeds. Yet in all the years he's lived at Foxworth Hall, rarely has there been a maid between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five who hasn't caught his eye. He'll seek them out, seduce them, only to discard them the moment the next pretty young face comes along."

"Corrine, you mustn't stay another _minute_ at Foxworth Hall," Grandmother Alicia pleaded. "I wasn't there when John Amos first came into your lives. But from all you've told me of him, he isn't fit to walk God's Earth."

I could almost hear the sound of my jaw hitting the floor. Never had I heard my grandmother speak ill of anyone, no matter how loathsome. To hear her speak ill of John Amos Jackson immediately confirmed my suspicions. It didn't matter one way or the other if he was one of God's disciples. It was like my father had always said: "A person can praise God until they're blue in the face, but if they don't practice, then what purpose can they expect to fulfill?"

"But my mother…" A small cry escaped Momma, and again she buried her face in the pillow. "If I leave, then she'll be all alone…with _him. _If I leave, then my father will surely abandon all deliberations to forgive me. John Amos will remain his sole heir, and my children and I shall certainly end up on the streets!" As she began to sob loudly, Christopher and I clung tightly to each other.

"CORRINE!" The sudden whip in Grandmother Alicia's voice startled us. So terribly out of character was her tone for someone so renowned for their soft-spoken nature. Even Momma couldn't keep herself from flinching. Christopher and I stood up and scooted to the opposite end of the room to observe the scene as it unfolded before our eyes. "I _will not_ sit here and continue to watch you foolishly put your life and the lives of your children in danger! Believe me when I say that even your grandfather could raise his voice when the need arose…and I won't hesitate to raise mine. Now, open those pretty blue eyes of yours and _look_ at me, Corrine Foxworth Dollanganger."

Her frail body trembling, Momma averted her face from the pillow. She forced herself to sit up, just so her eyes would be on level with her mother-in-law's. "What do you expect me to say, Alicia?" Her approach was that of someone who has fought a long and taxing battle, only to surrender themselves at the feet of their successors. "That I'm willing to renounce my decision to do all I can to improve the lives of my children one-hundred times over? That I'll allow fate to take control of my life as you allowed my father to do with your finances?"

Oh, why had Momma chosen _that_ as her defense? She had to have known before the words spilled forth from her lips that it was the wrong thing to say! My brother and I knew it instantly as we watched, alarmed, as Grandmother Alicia raised her hand and slapped Momma clear across the right cheek. The sound of skin assaulting skin echoed off the walls, my heart beating so hard I could almost hear the blood pumping.

My mother, who appeared too bewildered to reply, simply stared at my grandmother. Her eyes wide, she lifted her hand and pressed the area of her face where Grandmother Alicia had struck. It was as if my mother needed proof that my grandmother's capability for violence was as strong as that of her empathy.

"I'm sorry," Grandmother Alicia said, after a few moments of silence had passed. "I should not have done that. But you left me with little choice, Corrine. Your father spoiled you, and perhaps that is what has made you the way you are. You're stubborn, and it is that stubbornness that has always helped you gain rewards. But stubbornness does not bestow upon you the privilege to speak callously of others. Especially those of us who are doing their _damndest_ to make you see sense!"

It was both odd and distressing to see Grandmother Alicia trying so hard to control her temper. In all fairness, though, Momma certainly wasn't doing a thing to make it easier for any of us—particularly herself.

"You will not be returning to Foxworth Hall," my grandmother continued firmly. "I absolutely _forbid it._ I don't care _how _much money is involved—it is not worth the risk of your safety. Once you've recovered from your injuries, we'll go into town and find you some employment. Perhaps something in one of the boutiques at the department store. You have such zeal when it comes to fashion. Companies always take that into account when hiring new employees. In the meantime, you and the children shall remain here with me. You can assist me with my students, and I'll even pay you a fair sum."

Grandmother Alicia's offer was nearly enough to make me want to trade in my dream of becoming a prima ballerina for that of a career woman. So why wasn't Momma as enthusiastic as I? Why did she continue to sit there and stare at my grandmother as if she were a stranger?

"You'll think it over," said Grandmother Alicia, her tone seeming to imply more order than suggestion. "Now go to sleep. When you're feeling better, we'll discuss everything in further detail. Until then, I'll find a way to contact your mother. But I don't want you to concern yourself with her welfare. Don't forget that I, too, knew her once. Olivia is strong. And I have every reason to believe it is that strength which has helped her to survive these last fifteen years."

She rose, tucking Momma into bed the way she'd done for Christopher and me when we were little. My brother and I watched our grandmother lean forward and kiss our mother on the cheek, whose redness was already fading. Despite Grandmother Alicia's former solidity, there was no denying she was a born nurturer. She loved us—all _five _of us. Loved us enough to stand up against something she could plainly see was going to profit no one.


	16. Ch 15: Trepidations

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

Because Grandmother Alicia had given Momma one of her tranquilizers, the remainder of the day passed by serenely. Christopher and I lingered loyally at our mother's side, leaving her only a few times to use the bathroom. Evening had come, and I lay stretched out beside her on the bed as she slept soundly. I was effortless in my inertness so as not to aggravate her wounds. Christopher stood before the window, hands buried deep inside his pockets as he gazed out at the sky. The summer sun had nearly completed its descent behind the distant Virginia Mountains, and the bright blends of oranges, yellows, reds and violets made the sky parallel to one of my brother's watercolor paintings.

It was a quarter past eight, and we were all long overdue for dinner. Grandmother Alicia had promised to call us, but hours had passed since she'd come into the room. A feeling of agitation washed over me then, as I thought suddenly of the night my father had died. Momma had devoted an entire afternoon to a superb roast that had been reduced to withered charcoal inside the oven when Daddy failed to come home. The present growling of my stomach only served as a reminder of that fateful night back in April. If I listened very carefully, I could hear the faint echo of the twins' incessant complaints: "When is Daddy coming?"

"Christopher," I said. "It's passed dinnertime, and the twins should have been in bed an hour ago. What do you think could be keeping Grandmother Alicia?"

His hands still in his pockets, Christopher whipped his head around. "I'm not sure…but you're right. It _would_ be wise to go downstairs and see that everything is as it should be."

We left Momma and headed downstairs. We were halfway to the first floor when our grandmother's voice drifted up to us. Judging by the nature of her tone, she was clearly speaking to someone on the telephone. I made to continue my steps, only to be stopped by Christopher's hand clamping down on my shoulder.

"Hold up, Cathy. Whatever it is that's being discussed is bound to be private. In which case, we'd do our best to remain unseen."

We sustained our approach, treading carefully to avoid any steps whose groans might give us away. As soon as we reached the bottom we padded quietly over to the china cabinet, flattening ourselves against the wall beside it. We stood stark still and listened distinctly to the voice of our paternal grandmother.

"…Yes. They are all beautiful, healthy children, with intellects as bright as the sun. You would fall in love, Olivia, so in love; just as I did the moment I first set eyes on their angelic faces. Chris has his father's looks and optimism, and Cathy is so imaginative and talented. Cory is identical to Joel in nearly every way, right down to his gentleness and charm. And Carrie you could say is much like Mal was, for she is so chatty and headstrong."

…

"Oh, I'm sure they'd like it _very much._ When you do find time to visit Richmond—"

The seconds ticked by, and Grandmother Alicia failed to say anything more. In that time, Christopher and I shared a long, meaningful look. Apparently our other grandmother had an interest in meeting us, her four grandchildren. From what little my brother and I knew of her she seemed nice enough, despite her vulnerability and timidity from living under the control of John Amos Jackson for so many years.

_She's the reason _Momma_ is the way she is, _I pondered. Oh, but my mother _was _kind! And if _she_ was kind, then surely Grandmother Olivia was, too.

"No. I _do _understand that you blame me for the falling out between Corrine and Malcolm all those years ago. I accept that as my responsibility alone. But what I _won't _accept is the way he _ordered_ that horrible man to punish her! You often looked the other way when it came to the way Malcolm disciplined your sons. But I'll be damned if I'll stand by and allow him to inflict the same violent punishments unto the mother of my grandchildren!"

"Cathy," whispered Christopher, "come with me back to the sewing room. I've got an idea that will enable us to hear the rest of the conversation without the possibility of being discovered."

"What's your idea, Christopher?"

"You'll see when we get there. Just hurry before Grandmother Alicia hangs up the phone."

He was already heading back toward the stairway as he spoke. Quickly I sprinted after him. Ever so silently we shuffled back along upstairs, breaking into a run as soon as we reached the second landing. Like shadows on the walls we raced down the dimly lit corridor and into the sewing room.

"Shut the door," my brother ordered, crouching down on the floor to the far left of the desk. "Then come over here."

In another moment I was kneeling beside him. That was when I noticed for the first time a vent from which our grandmother's muffled voice was emitting through the tiny crevices.

"I knew it,"Christopher said, as he reached over to take the vent off the wall. The vent was connected to four slits in back and not screwed into the wall as I'd expected, making its removal a relatively easy task. "I _knew _when I saw this vent that it led straight into the kitchen!"

"Ssshhh!" I hissed. "You can congratulate yourself on your brilliance later. Until then, shut up so we can hear what's happening."

For once he made no attempts to argue with me. Sprawling flat on our stomachs before the open vent, we set our ears to the one-sided conversation taking place below.

"…I know Corrine is an adult. But neither you nor I can deny that she is incapable of making sound decisions. Her dependence on Christopher mirrors my own dependence on Garland. Now that Christopher is gone, Corrine is being forced to start her life over, and she doesn't know the first thing about doing that. Christopher adored her as Garland adored me. But there is no overlooking how my son gave his wife everything she desired, no matter how extravagant. The only dream Corrine ever had was to marry a handsome young man and bear him children. The likelihood of having to make her own way in the world never concerned her. I tried many times to discuss with her the future and where she'd be if something ever happened to Christopher. But she didn't want to hear it. She often accused me of trying to ruin her happiness, just because both my marriages ended so tragically. It was after our last conversation on the subject that Christopher's and Corrine's visits with the children began to lessen. Whenever I invited them, Corrine would say she had her hands too full with the twins to make the long trip to Richmond. From then on I only saw Christopher, often when he stopped to visit me on his way to and from business trips. Oh, Olivia. Why did it have to be the death of my only son that reunited me with the one family I have left in the world?"

An uncomfortable silence ensued, in which I flung Christopher a worried look. He was staring dejectedly ahead at the vacant hole in the wall, his lack of words a telltale sign that he'd known nothing of what we'd just heard. While we waited for Grandmother Alicia to speak again, I thought of all the wonderful holidays my family had spent with her. When had that stopped? It was true that our trips to Richmond had diminished significantly after the twins were born. Yet whenever Christopher or I had raised the subject, Momma or Daddy always had a very credible explanation:

"Your grandmother is away in South Carolina, visiting friends."

"She isn't feeling well."

"I'm afraid we won't be able to make the trip to your grandmother's for Christmas this year, children. The snowfall in Virginia this December is particularly heavy. Most towns have had their railroads blocked, and aren't expected to reopen again for several days."

"It's the anniversary of Grandfather Alistair's death, and she'd prefer to spend it alone at the cemetery."

"I know we planned to spend our Easter in Richmond. But Cory's hay fever always flares up at this time of year. All those long hours on a stuffy train will only make it worse."

Excuses, that's what they were! Never had there been a time where we weren't welcome at Grandmother Alicia's cottage. And she would have _jumped _at the chance to visit us in Gladstone. She'd come to see us all but twice: The first time following Christopher's birth, and the second two and a half years later, after I was born. I knew this was true because of the photographs our parents had shown us.

"You were always wise beyond your years, Olivia—and so _good_ at giving advice. But the time has come for me to offer _you_ a little helpful guidance of my own: Dismiss John Amos not only as your butler, but from your life! Do it _now, _while you're still young and strong enough to stand up to him. Fulfill this promise, and once she has recovered, I'll make sure Corrine takes the next available train back to Charlottesville, if that is what she wants. But fail me, and I will not permit her to return to Foxworth Hall. I am sorry, but I cannot allow her to live in a place where such violence exists."

Christopher and I wallowed in each other's breathing, and the sound of our bodies shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden floor. The next words we heard were again those of Grandmother Alicia, as she bade good-bye to her former daughter-in-law.

"Regardless of what you decide to do, you will always have a special place in my heart, Olivia. Never forget that _you_ are the mistress of Foxworth Hall. With your husband as he is, your status means having the final word in every decision. As long as he lives, then the Hall shall remain as much yours as it does Malcolm's."

My brother and I dismissed the silence that followed as proof that Grandmother Olivia had agreed to Grandmother Alicia's conditions. Christopher recovered the vent and reattached it to the wall, just as we became aware of footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Hastily we scrambled to our feet. We plopped ourselves down on the edge of his bed, right before there came a knock at the door. "Come in," he said.

The door opened and Grandmother Alicia appeared. Her conversation with Grandmother Olivia seemed to have flustered her more than Christopher and I could have expected. Her hands were pressed to her absent bosom with such force that for a moment I feared she might be suffering a heart attack.

"Have either of you seen your brother and sister?" she asked, her face flushed.

"No," I said.

"We thought they were somewhere in the house,"Christopher said, "or outside on the swings."

Grandmother Alicia continued in a quivering voice. "We were all in the parlor, tinkering with the piano, when the telephone rang. I thought it was a call regarding one of my students, so I left the twins with the promise that I'd be right back. It turned out to be your Grandmother Olivia. Except for when I sought hers and Malcolm's help with your father, I have had no contact with either for over thirty years. Although I'd planned to call your grandmother myself this evening, I must admit I was surprised to hear from her. She wanted to make sure your mother's train had arrived safely. But what should have been a one-hour discussion transpired into a three-hour conversation. When I returned to the parlor, there was no sign of Carrie _or_ Cory."

"What about the swings?" I asked. "Maybe they got tired of waiting for you and went to play outside."

"I've already checked. They weren't anywhere to be found."

"What about the other rooms?" Christopher suggested. "It _is _passed their bedtime. It's possible they've just laid down somewhere and already fallen asleep."

"I've searched everywhere!" Tears came to fill our grandmother's large blue eyes, and she wrung her hands helplessly in a way that reminded me very much of Momma. "The whole cottage, but they were nowhere to be found! Oh, what am I to tell your mother when she awakens and asks where her two youngest children are?"

Golly-lolly, but it was just as we had always feared! The final event in a long chain of tragedies that would finally push Grandmother Alicia over the edge. Oh, what were Christopher and I—a boy of fourteen and a girl of twelve—to do when the adult in charge of us was incapable of coping with the disappearance of two five-year-olds? As our grandmother threw her hands over her face and began to sob, Christopher raced across the room to her side. While he gathered her into his strong arms I sat there, racking my brain. Where in the world had Carrie and Cory possibly disappeared to?

"Cathy, run outside and search the entire yard again," commanded Christopher, his tone so authoritative that he sounded even less like a child than usual. "It's quite possible the twins are playing a trick on Grandmother Alicia and are just hiding someplace."

While I didn't put much of my own faith in that idea, I decided that following my brother's orders was the only thing left to do. Hurling myself off the bed and out of the sewing room, I practically tripped over my own feet as I flew down the stairs and out the door. Standing on the porch, it occurred to me how Cory and Carrie had often liked to go underneath ours to play. Thinking this might be the motive for their departure this time, I decided to investigate. Getting down on my hands and knees on the grass, I peered underneath the porch. The sun had set ages ago, and so the only light I was provided with was that which shone down from the porch.

"Carrie," I called, "Cory! If you're under there, then come out now, please. Christopher and I are very worried. Grandmother Alicia is beside herself. And Momma will be devastated once she wakes up and finds you two missing."

When neither my sister nor brother answered, I tore wildly from one area of the yard to the next, frantically calling out their names while peering into bushes and over hedges. Figuring the twins must have gotten bored and wandered off somewhere, I decided to go inquire at the homes of several neighbors. Regrettably, none of them had come across two five-year-olds meandering down the street or playing in anyone's yard. On my walk back to the cottage, I considered taking my concern to the Radcliffe's. I stood before their house for a long time, weighing the pros and the cons of what my plea for help would entail. Most importantly was the question of how my family and I would clarify Momma's state, if Caren and Mrs. Radcliffe insisted on coming over. There was no lie in the whole wide world that could explain _that_ away, not one! This concern was all it took for me to decide that keeping silent would serve as the best possible scenario. Quickly I took off down the street, back in the direction of Grandmother Alicia's cottage before Caren or someone else could spot me.

I did, however, check one last place before delivering the bad news to my brother and grandmother: Grandmother Alicia's garage, which she used to store her car in only during the cold winter months. The household entrance to the garage was located only a little ways down from the kitchen, through a small door near the parlor. Quietly I pushed open the door, running my hand over the wall until I found the switch. I flicked it upwards, squinting as the room flooded with light.

The garage was quite small, barely large enough to squeeze one automobile into. The dusty shelves served as space for Grandfather Alistair's old medical supplies, including boxes of unused test tubes, fresh syringes, and what must have been close to if not at least five-hundred pairs of rubber gloves. Dangling halfway off the edge of the same shelf as these items and threatening to fall onto the floor if disturbed was a stethoscope. There was no doubt that Carrie—who couldn't resist reaching for things that were easy for her to obtain—would have grabbed it had she and Cory been inside the room at any point. Just by reaching for that stethoscope my sister would have caused all of the other items to come crashing down, too. The sound itself would have been loud enough to alert the rest of us. The garage was so restrictive of decent hiding places, it was clear that the twins could not have possibly been inside at any time. My heart now feeling heavier than it had when I'd returned from my unsuccessful search, I switched off the light. Then, shutting the door, I turned and made my way back down the foyer to the stairs.

Christopher was waiting for me outside the door to the sewing room when I reached the second landing. "I heard you come in a little while ago," he said. "I take it you had no luck finding the twins?"

Shaking my head despairingly, I sank down onto the top step. "No, and it's already dark outside. Christopher, what if something has happened to Cory and Carrie? Something terrible? They could be lost, or hurt, or gotten kidnapped, or…" I broke off, feeling myself begin to tremble with every possibility shaped by my imagination, each one more dreadful than the last.

Sensing my inability to keep it together, Christopher strode from the door and over to me. Taking my hands in his, he hauled me to my feet and pierced me with his cerulean eyes. "All right, Cathy. Now, listen up, because here's what's going to happen: Grandmother Alicia is sleeping right now, but in a few minutes I'm going to go into the sewing room and wake her. It may take a little work to convince her, but I think I can talk her into letting you and me go in search of Carrie and Cory."

"You mean by ourselves? Why can't we just call the police?" I demanded. "Surely if anyone can find two young children, they can."

"Have you forgotten, Cathy? The reason we can't let the police know about Carrie and Cory missing is the same reason we can't let anyone outside of this house know about Momma's condition. I've been thinking a lot about the story she and Grandmother Alicia told us this afternoon. Not just about John Amos Jackson and the grandfather Malcolm, but the reason why our surname is 'Dollanganger' and not 'Foxworth'. It's because our parents didn't want anyone outside of the family to know that they're actually blood relatives. If the police come here and see Momma the way she is now, then they're going to ask questions. Questions whose answers will ultimately lead back to the events of our family's history and disrupt all of our lives."

"But the twins…" I sounded as Momma had earlier, as she'd sought Grandmother Alicia's blessing to go back to Foxworth Hall for the sake of Grandmother Olivia. Sometimes consequences meant so little when it came to the physical safety of those you loved. When at last I'd gathered together the proper words with which to go on, I persisted with a recapitulation of my fears for the twins' safety, which ended in a tirade of panic: "What if they're wanting and afraid and waiting for someone to take them home? _And when no one DOES they'll think it's because we don't care?"_ I balled my hands into tight fists and began beating at Christopher's broad chest as Carrie would have. Just thinking of my little sister sent me into a torrent of tears that quickly turned to sobs, stifled only by Christopher's arms chaining around me. He drew me close against him, soothing me with words I'd always believed him to be too ashamed and masculine to speak aloud. It was during moments like this, moments when I was at my most vulnerable, that he became the father I missed so terribly.

"Hush…we'll find them. No matter what, I swear to you that before this night ends, our brother and sister will be tucked away, safe and sound in their bed."

We stood there like that in the dimly lit foyer, until my sobs subsided and the only tears I had left were those clinging to my lashes. Slowly, almost falteringly, Christopher's arms loosened from around me. As I met his gaze, his gentle eyes and benign smile filled me with the strength I needed to make it through this night.


	17. Ch 16: An Accidental Intrusion

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews.

* * *

Grandmother Alicia became very agitated when Christopher divulged to her his plan to go in search of the twins on our own. Just as I had, she proposed we notify the police—a suggestion that Christopher blatantly refused. Putting on his best adult front, he explained that because he and I knew Carrie and Cory better than anyone, we also knew the type of places they would go. "We won't be long," Christopher promised, when it appeared as though he'd failed to convince our grandmother of our capabilities, "and we'll bring flashlights."

She sighed, running her slim fingers through her chestnut hair. "All right, Chris. But _be careful, _and make sure to return within an hour's you haven't found your brother and sister by then, we'll have no choice but to involve the authorities."

The look Christopher gave me told me he understood this fact all too well. That if we didn't succeed in our quest, then the consequences that followed could easily prove dire. As I questioned my ability to handle yet another family crisis, my stomach lurched with uncertainty.

It was a quarter past ten when we began to thread our way through the deserted streets of our grandmother's small but practically foreign neighborhood. I cursed myself for declining Caren's invitation on Thursday to join her at the vicinity drugstore for a soda. It was the day before Momma's arrival, and I'd been busy helping my grandmother prepare. If I'd gone along with Caren, then perhaps I could have familiarized myself a little better with the district. So far, the only directions I'd memorized were the correspondent loops that started and led straight back to our street. Knowing Christopher had not yet bothered to explore the neighborhood himself merely added to my apprehension.

As our concern for Carrie and Cory continued to climb, so did the minutes on Christopher's watch. Our voices were growing hoarse from the many times we'd called the twins' names, though neither of us would dare say aloud what the other was thinking. The hour wasn't up yet, and both of us were determined to see our journey through to the end. It was just after Christopher had punctured the darkness with his one-hundred-and-fiftieth "Carrie!" that our ears pricked to an unequivocal giggle issuing from down the street.

"Christopher!" I hissed, and paused mid-stride. "Listen closely, and tell me you didn't just hear that."

Discontinuing his steps, he craned his neck as if doing so would help him hear better. We waited, listening for the echo I feared had been no more than a fabrication of my restless mind. I was gathering the courage to admit to this, when suddenly a second echo—one similar in sound but higher in pitch to the first—pierced the air. Christopher heard it, too, and shone his flashlight in the direction of the laughter. I followed his example, and together we took off down the street.

"Cory!" Christopher shouted.

"Carrie!" I cried.

"Cathy, look!"

Were it not for my older brother, I would have surely kept right on running and past an open garage door. Doubling backward, I spun to see Carrie and Cory sitting beside a battered cardboard box just beyond the door. The box was home to six kittens of various colors and sizes. All were mewing avidly, while two had abandoned their cardboard dwelling for comfort in the arms and laps of the twins. Cory, who was terribly allergic to cats, ignored his watery eyes and runny nose as he buried his face in the downy fur of an orange tabby. Carrie, whom God had spared from this physical weakness, was chattering happily away to a Russian gray curled up in her lap.

The air smelled thickly of motor oil and gasoline. The garage was cluttered with all sorts of items one would expect to find in a hardware store. These included a variety of tools, which hung from nails secured into the right side of the wall. What appeared to be hand-carved, wooden shelves were attached to the left wall. Beneath the shelves was a worktable. The only means of transportation within eyeshot was a motorcycle that looked as though it had seen better days. It was propped against the wall in an out-of-the-way corner on the other side of the garage. The rust made it impossible to decipher the original color of the motorcycle. It was missing all but one tire, and several tools, nuts, and bolts littered its surrounding area.

"Well, I'll be darned!" hooted Christopher, as we showed ourselves into the garage and knelt down on the floor opposite the twins. "What do you know? Cathy and I lope like spies all over this town looking for you two, and this—_this _is where you've been, all along."

"Look, Christopher." Cory held the kitten he'd been cuddling up by the arms and belly out, its small legs dangling as if it had been strung up on a clothesline. "It's just what I always wanted! His name is Figaro. Can I keep him for a pet? Please?"

"You _can't _name him Figaro," Carrie argued, before Christopher could answer. "Figaro is black and white, and your kitty is orange. You should call him Carrot."

"I don't _wanna_ call him Carrot. Carrot is a name for a bunny, not a kitty. And I don't care if he _is _orange. If I say his name is Figaro, then his name is Figaro." No sooner had Cory confirmed this then did he sneeze, prompting Christopher to take little Figaro from him.

Even as the kitten began to nuzzle his chin with its muzzle, Christopher managed to speak in his most convincing adult voice: "Firstly, there is no way you or Carrie can keep _any _of these kittens, for the sole reason that they don't belong to you. Secondly, Cory, you're allergic to cats. That's why Momma and Daddy never let us have one."

"Well, what if I _stopped_ being 'lergic?"

"Allergies aren't something you can turn on and off like a control switch. Most people are born with allergies, while others develop them over time. If you're lucky enough, like Grandfather Garland was with his asthma, then you might outgrow your allergies some day. But it's equally possible you won't, and so you'd best not get your hopes up."

"But it's not fair!" Cory wailed.

"Yeah!" Carrie whined. "We-ee found these kitties, so we-ee should get to keep them!"

"Carrie," Christopher whispered shrilly, "Cory! Keep your voices down. Whoever lives here is obviously home—or they will be soon. For they've left their garage door open and all of their lights on. Carrie, put that kitten back in the box and let's go. If we're caught, there's no telling _how _the owner of this place will react."

Carrie was reluctant to give up the Russian gray, and it pained me to pry it from her unwilling arms. But my emotional pain was nothing compared to my physical pain as she let loose the loudest scream she had since the morning following our arrival in Richmond. Because of the still nigh air and high walls, her shriek echoed, puncturing the eardrums of the rest of us. Christopher and I hastily returned the kittens to their box, before grabbing each twin by an arm and dragging them toward the exit.

We were less than halfway there when we unexpectedly froze. I threw my hand over Carrie's mouth, while Christopher folded his arms together over Cory's chest. The shadow of a human figure had decidedly stepped into view from the far left corner of the garage. It was impossible to tell if the figure was male or female, let alone if they'd spotted us.

"Quickly, follow me," Christopher ordered in a hushed voice. The four of us edged our way into the darkest corner of the garage, underneath the worktable. It was a tight fit, but somehow the four of us managed to squeeze ourselves into the limited space. We held our breaths as the shadow drew closer, growing bigger as it paved the way for its owner.

I bit down hard on my lower lip to keep from screaming, as two legs garbed in denim jeans with holes in the knees came into view. The cuffs were tucked into a pair of dark brown army boots—boots whose clomping steps rattled every bone in our bodies.

"Hello?" said a voice, whose tone was that of a boy who could not have been any older than Christopher. "Is someone in here?"

Knowing she was apt to answer, I immediately passed my hand over Carrie's mouth. Christopher did the same to Cory's face, not trusting that the dust and fur floating around the air wouldn't make him sneeze.

The minutes my siblings and I spent sitting underneath that worktable with our knees crushed up against our chests were the longest minutes we had ever spent sitting still. We barely breathed as we watched the boots pace from one area of the garage to the next, searching for the intruder (or, in our case, intruder_s_). Whomever it was seemed incredibly concerned about the security of the motorcycle. I had a perfect view of the bike from my hiding place, squashed between Christopher's sweaty body and the cold cement wall. His back to us, the boy squatted before the motorcycle. The rear of his white t-shirt was stained with sweat, as if he'd just completed a running marathon. He was very skinny, the long veins in his right arm nearly popping as he shifted all of his weight to one side.

As curious as I was to learn more of what he looked like, I knew that would require certain sacrifices. Instead I continued sitting, my back aching as I felt my knees start to numb from the lack of blood flow to my legs. Carrie began to squirm uncomfortably in my arms. One glimpse at our brothers told me that they, too, were beginning to grow impatient. Christopher had tilted back his head to rest on the wall, his eyes closed. Cory reached up to slide his hand beneath his brother's and rub forcibly at his own nose.

Just as I was starting to fear we wouldn't escape before the inevitable took over, the boy stood up. He strode back across the garage, and I prayed this would be the last time he did that. Christopher's eyes flashed open. Keeping his hand over Cory's face, Christopher leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse of the garage door.

"Has he gone yet?" I asked in the softest whisper I could.

"Not yet."

"What's he doing?"

"He's stopping to look at the kittens."

And so we waited. Waited so long that the soreness in my back turned from being slightly uncomfortable to downright _unbearable. _I was about to tell Christopher that we should just give up and make a run for it, when Cory suddenly sneezed.

The footsteps rebounded, and with them came the terrified pounding of my own heart. Christopher and I pressed our backs up as far as we could against the wall. The icy texture caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand straight up. Slowly we slid our hands away from the mouths of the twins, embracing them as the boy came to a direct standstill before us.

"You can't hide from me forever," he said rigidly. "You're wasting your time. I know you're here. I saw your flashlights, so I know there's more than one of you. You might as well just give up now and show yourselves."

Golly day! We were trapped! Trapped like four little mice in the attic of Momma's childhood home! The slightest din or movement would certainly give us all away, and what ever happened after that was in God's hands.

"In case you didn't know, trespassing is a federal crime. If you've stolen anything, I'll find out, and when I do, I'll tell my dad, and he'll—"

I didn't hear the rest; something on my shoulder was distracting me. Thinking it was one of my brothers attempting to get my attention for some reason, I turned to see what it was they wanted. Only then did I come face to face with the biggest, ugliest, _grossest _spider I had ever seen—a spider that was sitting right on my shoulder! Oh, how I hated bugs! I saw most insects—especially spiders and worms—as unnecessary. Christopher was always telling me what a baby I was for having a fear he deemed as 'absurd' and 'irrational'. "You're such a girl," he would tease. He would then go off into a long explanation of how the existence of bugs was necessary for the survival of other animals. Animals he knew I liked, such as birds and fish, just to prove he was, as always, right about something.

But bugs were bugs, and that's all that mattered when I looked over and saw the huge, hairy thing clinging to me. Just as I was sure Little Miss Moffett would have, I let out a shriek loud enough to contend with even my sister's earth-shattering howls. Hastily I shook my arm, my terror only growing when the spider stayed put as if glued. Panicked, I forgot all about the table above me and stood, plummeting right back down again as my head struck the wooden surface. Ignoring the pain, I went right on screaming as I scrambled to my feet. Darting out from underneath the table, I dashed blindly forward—only to run straight into the arms of the boy with the brown boots.

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly, gripping my forearms tightly. "So you've finally decided to surrender, have you?"

Quickly I glanced down at my arm to check for the spider. Seeing that it had moved only as far as my forearm, I instantly began a series of fresh shrieks.

My reaction startled the boy. He let go of me, holding up his hands as he backed away slowly. "Whoa, hold up! You've got it all wrong! I ain't gonna hurt you or nothing. I just wanna know what it is you're doing in our garage."

Too preoccupied with figuring out a way to rid myself of the huge, hairy blob clinging to my arm like a burr, I ignored the boy completely. In reality, the creature was smaller than my thumbnail. But, being as frightened as I was of spiders, it looked twice as big as it would to someone who didn't share my phobia.

"What's the matter with your arm?"

"Can't you see it?"

"See what?"

"The spider!"

"Spider?"

"The one on my arm!" I wailed.

"Hey, relax," said the boy coolly. As if he thought I was some venomous insect myself, he took two tentative steps forward. "Oh, yeah, I see him. But don't worry; it's just a harmless old house spider. He won't bite. Just hold still while I…" He trailed off as he cupped his hands around the spider. He used the hand to the rear of it to push it into his other hand. "Wow—I think all your screaming has traumatized him. He ain't movin'."

"Get it off!" I was close to tears now, convinced that the boy was wrong and that the spider _was _poisonous.

"What do you think I'm trying to do? Really, if you'll just shut up a minute, he'll spin a web and drop right off your arm."

"I don't want some icky old spider using my arm to spin his nasty web!"

"Oh, boy—you _are _slow. Don't you know I was only fooling?"

As tactless as they were, his words provided me with the distraction I needed to forget about the problem clinging to my arm. As I looked up into his face, I was struck by the softness that dazzled his hazel eyes. His lips were thin and pale, but the smile he displayed was an astounding match to his eyes. His medium-brown locks were shaped into a ducktail, which I reputed looked a bit goofy on someone no older than fourteen. On his lower lip he balanced a toothpick, which he switched from one corner of his mouth to the other every few seconds. It left me wondering if this was perhaps a general idiosyncrasy of his. His face was kind, yet he seemed to possess the sort of dangerous, bad-boy personality any young girl would be attracted to. He struck me as the type who was in a great hurry to grow up, but was not quite ready to renounce all that tied him to his childhood. I was young and had not even begun the journey in which girls discovered boys. Yet, without even being able to explain why, I felt an instant attraction to _this _boy.

"All right—that's enough."

We spun to see Christopher leading each twin by the hand as he crawled out from underneath the table. His eyes clashed with those of the boy, who stood an entire foot shorter than my brother.

"I realize we don't know each other," Christopher said. "But I know _this much_ is factual: You've got no right calling my sister slow when your head resembles none other than a duck's ass."

I expected the boy to disparage Christopher with an insult of his own, or at least recoil. Which was why it surprised me, and Christopher, too, when he merely turned his attention back to me. Carefully seizing the spider from its place on my arm, the boy succeeded in disproving the idea that I had any real reason to be afraid.

"See?" he asked, extending his cupped hands forward so I could see the spider they contained. "He's more afraid of you than you are of him. Just 'cause something looks scary don't always make it so."

"Thanks. I'll take your word for it."

He shrugged, and tossed the spider onto the floor behind him. It scurried away and disappeared beneath a piece of blue tarp. "Girls. Are you _all _afraid of bugs, or is it just the pretty ones who are?"

Oh, golly-lolly! But did my face flush when he said that! It was the first time any boy who wasn't my father—or Christopher, when he was in a compassionate mood—had called me pretty. I didn't know quite what to say or how to react, and so I just stood there giggling. It wasn't the best response I could offer…only one that served to redden my already crimson cheeks. But it was all I could think to do in my unguarded state.

I surely would have drowned in my embarrassment had the boy not said something to guide me back to the shores of confidence: "The name's Nick, by the way. Nick Crenshaw."

Ignoring my sudden onset of self-consciousness, I gave him what I hoped didn't come across as a forced smile. "I'm Cathy Dollanganger."

"Dollanganger?" Nick reached up and plucked the toothpick from his mouth to let out a high whistle. "Wow! I've heard some whoppers before, but that one takes the cake!"

"It took me a whole month to learn how to spell," I confessed, then gestured to my siblings. "This is Christopher, my brother, and Carrie and Cory, our siblings. They're twins," I added unnecessarily.

"Yeah, I can tell," Nick replied, and flashed a smile at my three siblings. When his gaze caught Carrie's, she smiled shyly and buried her face in Christopher's thigh. "I don't have any brothers or sisters, but sometimes I wish I did. It's just me and my parents. You sure are lucky, Cathy."

"I don't mean to seem rude," Christopher said, as Nick winked at me, "but this is hardly a social visit. The only reason Cathy and I came onto your property in the first place is because we were scouting the area for our sister and brother. They disappeared earlier this evening from our grandmother's cottage. Now that we've found them, it's time for us to be heading home. We're sorry to have caused you any trouble."

"When we found them," I elucidated, "Cory and Carrie were playing with your kittens."

"Oh, yeah." Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "They're cute, ain't they? You want one? Come tomorrow they'll be exactly six weeks and fifteen days old. In the morning I'm gonna go out to the corner with a sign to try and give some away. But there's no reason why I couldn't bump one off now on some new owners. It'll be one less kitten I'll have to worry about finding a home for."

"Thanks, but we can't. My little brother's allergic."

"But you just said he was playing with the kittens."

"Have _you _ever tried to convince a five-year-old who's allergic to cats not to play with them? It's darn near impossible!"

Embarrassed, Nick shifted his gaze to the box of kittens. At first, I thought my words—which were meant to induce only humor—had wounded him. But then he whirled around, grinning at us.

"Well, it was great to meet you all, even if you _are _intruders. Maybe I'll see you around sometime…how long will you be staying at your grandmother's?"

"We're not sure, exactly. We're sort of living there now."

"Oh!" His face brightened, and his eyes fell across my face. "That's fantastic! Well, I guess we _will _run into each other sooner than later."

"I'm sure we will," replied Christopher, his attitude toward Nick appearing to have softened slightly. "Come on, Cathy. It's a long walk back to Grandmother Alicia's, and we did promise her that we wouldn't linger."

I waved to Nick from over my shoulder as I followed Christopher out of the garage, with Carrie and Cory in tow. Christopher and I had just stopped to pick up the flashlights we'd left on the floor, when Nick called to us.

"Hey—" Nick spun around, dashing after us. "The next time you're downtown, you should stop by Crenshaw's Hardware. It's my dad's store. I work there five days a week every summer—Fridays through Sundays during the school year."

"We'll keep that in mind," Christopher said, as he took Cory by the hand and began to lead him down the sidewalk.

"'Bye." I gave Nick one final wave, before reaching down to grasp Carrie's hand in mine.


	18. Ch 17: In the Arms of Love

I do not own _The Dollanganger Saga _or any of its characters, likenesses, or places. They belong to V.C. Andrews. In the following chapter I have taken some fragments from _Flowers in the Attic _and reworded them to the best of my abilities; revealing the exact scene would require a spoiler, but all shall be revealed once you've started reading.

Once again, I would like to extend my appreciation to GrayRainbows, my lovely friend and mentor, for allowing me to borrow her idea concerning a certain artifact originally featured in her wonderful and very addictive fanfiction, _Garden of Shadows: The Missing Chapters. _Thank you for always being so generous with your ideas, and for helping me come up with my own. :)_  
_

* * *

I paid no mind to the late morning sunlight spilling through the sewing room window to where it formed a golden puddle on the floor between the beds. Being careful not to wake Christopher, whose face and right palm were directed at the ceiling, I slid out of bed. I scuttled across the room to the door and slipped out into the desolate hallway.

I maintained a steady pace from the sewing room to the other end of the foyer, where Grandmother Alicia's bedroom was. She had given up her own bed to Momma, whose painful injuries could not sustain the twin-sized mattress of the guestroom. Grandmother Alicia had slept there in her place, promising that a night or two on the small bed would do her no harm.

Once I had reached my grandmother's door, I raised my fist and rapped twice. "Momma, it's me. How are you feeling? May I come in?"

When my greeting failed to evoke a response, I knocked again. Nothing happened, and so I pressed my ear to the door. I listened carefully. Hearing only silence, I assumed my mother must still be asleep. I pushed the door slightly forward. Peering through, I saw my grandmother. She was sitting alone on the unmade bed, clutching a handful of sheets to her face. Was she crying? I put one pink-slippered foot through the door and tapped my knuckles softly against the panel. Lowering the sheets away from her face, Grandmother Alicia turned towards the sound. Our gazes locked, and I could see the manifestation of tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Cathy, it's you. What are you doing up so early? I would have thought you'd be sleeping still."

"Christopher is. I woke up and thought I'd come see how Momma was." Pushing the door the remainder of the way open, I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me. "Where is she?"

My grandmother's face displayed all the signs of an awful truth yet to be divulged. Silently I watched as she patted the empty place beside her. "Come here, darling, and sit with me. We need to have a talk."

I did as she requested, knowing that whatever it was she had to tell me involved Momma. I watched Grandmother Alicia produce a sheet of paper I had failed to notice earlier, for it blended in so well with her pink sheets. It was folded twice over and was the same style of pink perfumed stationary stored inside the desk of the sewing room. "I came in very early this morning," she began tearfully, holding the paper out to me, "with the intention of checking on your mother. When I opened the door, all I found were this letter and her two missing suitcases."

I took the paper from my grandmother. As I opened it, I immediately distinguished the loopy, feminine scrawl as that of my beloved mother's own hand.

_Dearest Alicia, Christopher, Cathy, Cory, and Carrie,_

_As you read this letter, I shall find myself riding the train back to Charlottesville. As cowardly and selfish as I'm sure you consider my actions, please try to understand that I am doing what I truly believe is best. Throughout my entire childhood I attended boarding schools designed for daughters of the wealthy and influential. After that I was sent on to finishing school, where I was taught to follow social etiquette and scholastics. I was trained to prepare for forthcoming romances and debutante balls, and how to value myself as the perfect entertainer and hostess. But never was I given the skills that would help me be anything more than a proper wife and mother. I am not nor have I ever been suited for a lifestyle in which I would be required to work or earn a living. When I married my husband, I expected he would always be there to support me._

_I pray that the details of my upbringing will provide you with an acceptance of why I have chosen such a difficult road. Christopher Foxworth, the father of Garland Foxworth, had a saying. A saying he not only lived by, but which he believed helped him to survive his services in the Civil War: "When time is of the essence, you must move forward while you still have the chance. If you don't, then you will risk losing out on the most blessed chance of all: And that is the chance at a full, happy life."_

_We've been given a chance, too, darlings. A chance to live in affluence and contentment for the rest of our days! Do your best to realize that, in order to earn what is ours, that certain sacrifices must be made. The loss of dignity when I was punished by your grandfather and John Amos was my sacrifice. But I was willing to sacrifice my dignity for a better future, just as you four children must be willing to sacrifice my company for your freedom. I cannot say how long it will be until we are all together again. But there is one thing I CAN promise, and that is not one moment will pass in which I am not thinking of you. Please forgive me for the pain I've caused you all. Realize that everything I have done up to this point has been with you in mind, and always with the very best of intentions._

_Regrettably, I cannot guarantee how often I'll be able to visit. But I promise to stay in touch regularly by phone and through letters. Keep me in your prayers, just as I am keeping you in mine._

_Love, Corrine/Momma_

I hadn't even finished reading the letter before the tears began sliding down my cheeks like rain down a windowpane. "How could she—" I choked, and lifted my head to see that my grandmother's eyes had swelled with fresh tears. "How could she just _leave_ us like that?"

Grandmother Alicia shook her head slowly. "I suppose she thought that by not telling us herself, that it would make saying good-bye easier on us all."

"Well, the least she could have done was _said_ a proper good-bye…instead of just running off and leaving us with nothing but a letter!" Furiously I tossed the sheet of paper off the bed, paying no attention as it drifted silently through before settling beneath the bed.

Hastily my grandmother arranged her arms about me and pulled me into her lap. The last time we'd sat like this I had been all of seven years old and in tears over some silly thing Christopher had done. Just as I'd done then, I laid my head upon her bosom while she threaded her fingers through my hair. As angry tears coursed my cheeks and injured sobs tore at my throat, she began to hum softly the same melody she had just one week earlier when I'd become so irate with Christopher.

"It wasn't supposed to _be _like this! Momma was supposed to stay with us and find a job and…and…_and Daddy wasn't supposed to die!"_

Grandmother Alicia stopped humming. With an abrupt swiftness her hands pushed forcefully against the back of my head, causing my face to flatten against her. Through her pink floral nightdress I could sense the bony vestige of what was once a high and magnificent bosom. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the crest of what I knew to be the first of two long, pink scars. Both began just below her collarbone and ended at the foundation of her ribs.

"Yes. Yes, darling, I know. It is a terrible blow that our family has suffered. The death of a loved one is indisputably the most painful burden that anyone is forced to bear during their lifetime. But it is not a punishment or an act of God that is responsible. For the most dreadful of circumstances can happen to the most righteous of individuals. After I left Foxworth Hall and came back to Richmond, a long time passed before I returned to what a psychiatrist of mine once referred to as 'a state of being'. I was so consumed by thoughts of Garland's death that I began having horrible nightmares. Shortly after that was when I began sleepwalking. But it wasn't until it became a danger that my mother consulted a doctor, who'd recently opened up a private practice in our small town. He was young, this doctor, and a person who seemed more willing to help me than any physician I had ever known.

"Alistair," declared my grandmother, a hint of pride in her typically inconspicuous voice. I raised my head to stare at her in amazement through my tears. "Dr. Alistair Aldridge, my childhood sweetheart."

I knew that Grandmother Alicia and Grandfather Alistair had rekindled their romance not long after her return to Richmond. What I didn't know—nor had I ever thought to inquire about—was the detailed explanation behind it. Wiping the tears from my eyes I asked, "What happened when you found out it was him?" However, I didn't take into account that such a question would be followed by one of my grandmother's interminable—though no less intriguing—accounts.

"Almost seven years had passed since we'd seen each other," she began. "Like your father was destined to be one day, Alistair was the pride of his teachers and of our town. He'd graduated high school at just sixteen, and was about to enter college when I married Garland. Even though I'd rejected his aspiration to court me, Alistair was still a proud guest at my wedding. He was more than just tolerant, and not once did he ever resent Garland for being the object of my love. He was all smiles that day as the two shook hands. The kiss Alistair gave me was the sort of peck on the cheek that a brother would give his sister. He wished us well, promising that he would have graduated college before Garland and I returned from our honeymoon.

"As Garland and I traveled all over Europe, so did letters and postcards from Alistair. Wherever we were, word from Alistair always managed to reach us. We stayed in touch throughout the years I spent in Europe with Garland. By the time we settled in Virginia, Alistair was just settling into his new life as a medical student. But his teachers and the full-time job he needed to support himself were demanding. Gradually his letters reduced in contents, and soon after that so did the letters themselves. The last bit of news I received was right before Christmas, in the form of a beautiful blue shawl. With it was a brief but heartfelt note. The note was written in Alistair's developing doctor's penmanship: _For the cold Virginia winters. Love, Ali. P.S: Notice how the color matches your eyes._

"Every letter and postcard he sent me was stashed away inside a hatbox. They say one never forgets their first love, and Alistair was mine. Garland never seemed to mind that we kept in touch. He was always pleased that I'd continued to establish contact with many of my friends from high school—even if Alistair _had_ been more than a friend at one time. But when I was with Garland, I never thought of anyone else. It was always _Garland _I thought of when I gazed deeply into his eyes, or felt the warmth of his hand on my skin as he caressed my cheek.

"Yet it was Alistair's letters that helped me to survive the agonizing months that followed my husband's death. He had a way with words, your Grandfather Alistair. He could look at a flower, or a bird, and express through words the sort of pictures that your Grandfather Garland had expressed through his paintbrush." Grandmother Alicia sighed dreamily, like a girl trying to decide which boy to take to the prom. "Whenever I felt devoured by sorrow, and always before I fell asleep, I would reach for the box that I kept stashed away beneath my bed. I cannot tell you how many hours I spent reading and re-reading those old letters and postcards. For the hours were always more like minutes. As I read what Alistair had written—sweet expressions filled with brazen affections that one expresses towards the dearest of companions—I realized for the first time the emotions he was struggling with. Even when he had let me go, not once had he renounced his love for me. He respected me too much to ever act on any thoughts he may have had. And he saw Garland as the type of man who would be able to give me what he couldn't.

"Because my room was on the second landing of my mother's house, she had felt it wise to move me downstairs to the guestroom after my first few sleepwalking episodes. One evening as I sat reading a letter whose envelope had an Italy postmark, Christopher wandered into the room. 'What'choo reading, Momma?' he asked me.

"Brushing the tears from my eyes, I looked up from the sheet of blue stationary in my hand. I had no trouble conjuring a smile, for Alistair's letters always made that easy. 'A letter,' I said, 'from an old friend.'

"'What friend?'

"'Alistair. Alistair Aldridge.'

"Christopher knitted his pale eyebrows together. 'Where's Ally-stair All-bridge now?'

"'I'm not sure. We lost touch shortly before you were born.'

"'Oh.' Christopher stuck his thumb in his mouth, which was something he did whenever he felt anything required serious thought.

"'Would you like Momma to read you one of Uncle Alistair's letters?' Christopher nodded eagerly. He raced through the door and climbed onto the bed, snuggling close to me. He was fast asleep before I was even halfway through the second letter. Those that remained I read in silence. As I finished reading, I placed the letters one by one in a pile on the bed. By the time I'd finished, I saw that dawn was just beginning to break across the sky outside my window.

"Christopher had later concluded that once you took a hat out of its box, then that box was to be used to store letters. If we were visiting friends and he came across a hatbox with its hat still inside, he always found himself asking where the letters were. This both amused _and _confused a great many of our friends and neighbors. So much that Mother and I found ourselves having to explain about the contents of my own hatbox.

"It was there, in the guestroom of my mother's house, where I first read aloud Alistair's letters to someone other than myself. I had often shared the gist of them with Garland, but never word for word as I did with our son that night. Christopher seemed to enjoy the letters every bit as much as he would any storybook. By six o'clock the next evening—and two hours before his scheduled bedtime—he was asking 'Momma, will you read me one of Uncle Alistair's letters before I go to sleep tonight?' I was thankful that the letters gave him something to focus on in place of his loneliness for those he was unlikely to ever see again. Since leaving Foxworth Hall he had mentioned Olivia's name—and sometimes those of his nephews—at least twice a day. Either in the form of a guiltless 'Momma, when's Olivia coming to see us?' or by an innocent declaration of 'Momma, I miss Olivia and Mal and Joel. Can we go visit them soon?'

"Presently April was upon us, and Christopher's fourth birthday party was set for the following Saturday afternoon. Mother and I had spent all day preparing; even if our only plans consisted of a small family celebration with a few of Christopher's friends from school. Needless to say I was looking forward to it. It would be nice to have something pleasant to distract from the horrific finale of the previous year's events.

"After dinner, I went upstairs to my old room where I'd hidden the gifts I planned to give Christopher. Most still required wrapping, and I wanted to get started so that I'd have time to help with the following day's preparations. I was exhausted by the time I'd finished, and too tired to make my way back down stairs to the guestroom. So I decided to lay down on my old bed for a bit. A month had passed since my last sleepwalking episode. (My mother later confessed to this being her reason for not waking me that night.) These episodes were usually caused by memories of my years at Foxworth Hall…memories that chased me during my waking hours and found me in my dreams. It was on the night before the one-year anniversary of when I had lost my beloved Garland Christopher Foxworth, that these memories finally caught up to me.

"Whenever I dreamed of the night Garland had died, I would run, still fast asleep but approximating that of someone wide awake, out of my room. I always took a right, because that was where I knew the parlor door to be in Foxworth that would isolate any dangers. On the night I fell asleep upstairs, I took the same route I would have had I been at the Hall. I sensed what I thought was Malcolm throwing me to the floor; only to discover when I awoke in a painful heap at the bottom of the stairs what had actually occurred.

Because I had screamed, my mother found me and immediately notified our family physician. Thankfully the extent of my injuries was not life-threatening. During my fall I had suffered a broken arm and leg, a bruised spinal cord and a minor concussion. But it was not until the following morning, after I was told all of this, when I learned the identity of the doctor who had spent all night tending to me.

"'Alicia,' said my mother from the doorway of the guestroom, 'there's someone here who wishes to speak with you.'

"I remained perfectly still, my mind a nebulous tumult of the previous night's events, as my mother stepped aside. From behind her there appeared the last person on Earth I had expected to see. Someone who had first been a guest in my home when I was all of fourteen; I was now twenty-two. Gazing upon such a familiar face made me wonder if my lightheadedness was due more to shock, or my concussion.

"Alistair had hardly changed at all in the six years since we'd last spoken. He had grown taller, and was broader in the shoulders and chest than from what I remembered. His green eyes still contained the same appealing sparkle that made them appear two emeralds in the center of his exhausted but handsome face. His benevolent smile—which was the first thing that had attracted me to him all those years ago—still maintained its ability to light up a room. The yellow rays of sunlight pouring in through the hallway windows fell across his hair, highlighting the auburn strands and turning them red. He was wearing a long white doctor's coat, and a stethoscope hung from around his neck. His slate-blue trousers were neatly pressed, without a wrinkle in sight. His brown oxfords appeared to have been recently polished and were free of scuffs, thus strengthening his professional exterior.

"'Hello, Alicia,' he greeted. 'I take it you haven't forgotten me.'

"His words were more of a statement than a question, and the way he delivered them set my agitated mind at ease. 'Oh. Oh, no…'

"While my mother went away to prepare tea, Alistair shuffled diffidently into the room. He sat pertinently in the velvet armchair with its lilac cushion and gold trim that my mother had placed beside the bed. Alistair apologized for Dr. Loveday, who had been seeing to another patient when my mother had frantically telephoned his office. Alistair went on to explain that Dr. Loveday had sent him along in his place. As Alistair talked, I could see the deep concern swimming so starkly in those emerald pools that had once captivated me so. For the first time in exactly one year, I found myself drowning in a lake of unrelenting desire.

"He leaned forward in the chair. He then took my left hand, whose arm was not confined by a sling, in his. 'Not a day has passed where I haven't thought of you. My only regret is that our reunion has to be under such ominous circumstances.'

"'I would have thought a clever doctor such as you would want to pursue his career in an eminent hospital somewhere,' I said. 'What was it that made you return to Richmond?'

"'Dearest Alicia… Even after all these years, you've hardly changed at all, have you? You're as naïve as ever; though I've always believed such conduct to be no more than a perfect performance to match your charm.' When he saw that I was serious, he smiled and stroked my hand with his thumb. Then his eyes lowered, and his voice took on a more solemn quality. 'The answer to your question is quite simple, really: I've always dreamed of having my own practice, and the properties in Charlottesville are so expensive. It made more sense to stay here, in a place where people aren't always able to afford decent healthcare. This town has done so much for me; from my high school education to the scholarships that got me through my first two years of university. I thought that by becoming a village physician, I would be able to repay the community for all it did to get me where I am today. I'm not a wealthy man by any means; most of the time, my services are reimbursed in the form of jarred fruit and pickles. But I make an honest living. I help people, which is all I've ever wanted out of life. And I learned something during those seven years I spent toiling and working my way through university and medical school.' His eyebrows raised and he asked, 'Do you know what it is that I learned?'

"'What's that, Ali?'

"'That it isn't money that makes the world go 'round—it's love. As long as you have love, then wealth becomes less of a factor to one's own happiness.'

"All at once I felt myself on the edge of my defenses. I saw myself standing at the bank of the lake at Foxworth Hall. I saw Malcolm, who'd followed me that day. I heard his voice, as it rang clearly in my head once more. He'd said terrible things about Garland then—things so cruel and deceptive they aren't worth repeating. 'I never considered wealth an importance,' I told Alistair accusingly. 'I married Garland because I loved him, and he loved me. Not _once_ did money play a part in how I felt about him—how I _still _feel about him!'

"'I never thought it did.' Despite my harsh tone, Alistair's face never lost its expression of compassion. 'Always when I saw the two of you together was it obvious the degree of your feelings for Garland. Had those feelings been any less obvious, then I don't suppose I would have tried so hard to shield the ones I had for _you.' _

"He looked as though he had more to say, but my mother's arrival with the tea interrupted. She set the silver tray with its white kettle of pink floral and two matching, steaming teacups down on the nightstand. On the nightstand stood my beloved Tiffany lamp that Garland had bought for me. He had obtained it during a company trip to New York City, after I'd declared my fondness for a comparable model of Olivia's. The colorful glass trapped the sunlight seeping through the window and created little specs that danced across Alistair's face like fairies. His green eyes shone brightly with the additional light, making their similarity to jewels strengthen significantly.

"As my mother smiled, I recognized it as the same smile she had expressed the first time Alistair had come to our home. But it was also a smile that worried me. After Garland had died, I'd made a promise to myself that I would never allow myself to be wooed by another handsome man, let alone remarry. Not because I was devoted in such a way to Garland, but because I couldn't bear the thought of losing someone else I loved.

"Alistair and I waited for my mother to excuse herself and head into the kitchen, where Christopher was waiting patiently for breakfast. I was concerned about how much my son knew about my accident, and if so then how much it had affected him. That I had tainted his special day with yet another unpleasant memory was a possibility I had to force myself not to consider. My hope to recreate a little of the merriment that Garland and I had produced when Christopher turned three had been strong just the other day. Now, because of my own foolishness, I would be unable to do anything but sit and watch the festivities from my bedroom window.

"I hadn't realized I was pouting until Alistair handed me my tea and took the other cup for himself. 'Mm,' he said, as he raised it to his lips. 'It smells delicious. Tell me: Does your mother still make her own tea, or has she since relented and begun purchasing it from a supplier?'

"'No. She still uses the same jasmine leaves from her garden.'

"'Ah, yes, I can tell. She served this the first time you invited me to your house, remember? Or was it _I _who invited myself?'

"'It was our first date,' I confirmed, feeling my irritation for his former statement beginning to fade. 'You had insisted upon picking me up at my house so you could meet my parents. Your father had driven you in his motorcar, and was waiting for us at the end of the pathway.'

"'He had insisted on accompanying me to the door himself. But I told him no because I didn't want you to think of me as a sissy.'

"'That's one thing I never thought you were.' My cheeks were ablaze the moment I had uttered the last word. I hoped Alistair would be too focused on our conversation to notice my reaction, but his amused smile confirmed otherwise.

"'I'm very glad to hear you say that.' Setting his cup down on the tray, he took my own from me and positioned it beside his. Once again he reached over and placed his hand on top of mine. 'You know,' he began, and the smile faded from his face like the blue from the sky before a storm, 'I was truly touched when I heard about Garland. He was a good—a _great _man. His death was a tragic loss to not only those who loved him, but to those who never got the chance. He was lucky, Alicia; for not you or I or anyone else has reason to doubt that those six years he spent married to you were the happiest years of his life.' I watched through now blurred eyes as Alistair smiled, feeling him release his hand from mine. Ever so tenderly he pressed his hand to my cheek, thumbing away the tear that trickled down the side of my face. 'You gave him back his youth, darling, and in turn God blessed you both with a beautiful son.'

"I'll never forget the love I felt for Alistair as he placed a kiss in the center of my forehead, or the warmth that surged through my battered body as he hugged me, all the while being cautious of my wounds. He didn't seem to mind the way I hid my face against his chest, or that my tears stained his coat, or my echoing murmurs of 'Garland. Garland, my Garland.' Alistair, whose kindness and gentleness so perfectly mirrored that of my late husband, sat holding me, consoling me in every way a person possibly can. His strong fingers combed slowly through my chestnut tangles as he whispered to me that it was all right. That Garland was at peace now and looking down on Christopher and me. The only thing Alistair didn't do that any other man in his position surely would have was take advantage of my vulnerability.

"For the first time in exactly one year I watched, willing and unafraid, as the arms of love opened themselves to me yet again."


End file.
